


Ablaze and Alive

by Autor_Moriarty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Jim is a zombie, M/M, Minor Character Death, Slow Build, some mild gore nothing too gross, well kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 10:30:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 23,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4176489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autor_Moriarty/pseuds/Autor_Moriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty wakes up in a pine box six feet under. He claws his way to the surface, only to find that he's unknowingly entered into a zombie apocalypse - on the dead side.</p><p>Two months after being forced into hiding, Sherlock Holmes wakes up to absolute chaos. As he and his group flee the ruins of London, the last person he expects to meet is Jim, somehow back from the dead but not completely rabid. Is it possible to avoid destruction this time around?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There was a pine box and a lot of dust.

Waking up in said environment was hardly pleasant, but it was a fact, so Jim Moriarty dealt with it, as he dealt with everything.

In addition to the overwhelming smell of pine, the rich, earthy scent of soil filled the space, its weight bowing the lid above him in a claustrophobic’s worst nightmare, had they been able to see it in the absolute darkness.

Jim Moriarty filled his lungs and tasted the air. Uncirculated. Stale. Cold.

He shifted his stiff body into a less awkward position and rested his hands flat on the wood above him, testing it carefully. Tiny splinters flaked off onto his suit as he scratched and explored, dust motes swirling unseen past his parted lips into his cold body. How strange. It was as if he’d been buried. As baffling a development as that may be, Jim pushed his confusion aside, focusing his attention on escaping. Surely there wasn't enough oxygen in this coffin to last him, he needed to act quickly.

Gradually, Jim Moriarty peeled back a dampened plank and allowed the dirt that had been packed above it to cascade into the provided space. With some work patting it down with his feet as he dragged more into his small box, Jim Moriarty began to work his way upwards.

 

At long last, his hands broke through to the surface. Jim grasped the dew soaked grass with his dirty fingernails and clawed his way out of the pit, entirely covered in dirt and mud and dust, consciously coughing what he could from his lungs since it felt like the thing to do in such a situation. He sprawled onto his back and coughed and wheezed in the fresh air and stared up at the stars like a man back from the dead, in awe of their impossible shine despite the darkness. They were so incredibly beautiful. He couldn't remember the last time that he'd paused to admire them.

The leaves of trees rustled nearby as a calming breeze danced through the cemetery, somehow still perceptible on his skin through the layers of grime, and Jim rattled a sigh of relief, thankful for the sensations. He wasn’t dead. Somehow, some way, he’d survived. Oh, and how beautiful it all was.

 

Jim wasn’t certain how long he lay still in the grass, his suit soaking up moisture, eyes drinking in the sky, but gradually the stars faded and the deep purple above started to make way for vibrant orange and blazing yellow as the sun began to break over the horizon.

He ran his shaking hands down his thighs, assessing the strength of his legs, before making a move to pull himself to his feet, staggering clumsily as he straightened. A quick glance at the tombstone told Jim that he’d been buried under Sherlock’s name, and he gritted his teeth as he began to lumber towards the path leading back outside, head aching at the implications.

Sherlock must not be dead. But why had… well, it wasn’t possible that he’d killed himself, so someone must have drugged him. But why bury a living person? Why not just finish him off? It hardly seemed like the sort of thing that Mycroft would leave up to chance.

Jim limped out onto the sidewalk and looked around at the early morning city, already bustling with activity. He tried to hail a cab, but no one seemed to trust the dirty man in front of the cemetery, and after a few tries Jim realized he had no money on him anyway, plus no phone to call someone. He brushed his clothes nearly clean with his uncoordinated hands, then set off down the street, determined to find one of his many flats. Hopefully he made it to safety before Big Brother picked him up. The last thing he needed was to be reburied.

 

By the time Jim got into his keypad guarded flat and hauled himself up to his room, he was not particularly interested in getting cleaned up. His muscles were twitching painfully from disuse and he badly wanted a glass of water and a sandwich and a nice long nap in any order that he could get, but instead of giving in, Jim dragged his body into the bathroom and drew himself a bath. Tracking the dirt all over would only piss him off later, it just made sense to handle it now.

As the tub filled and steam rose with the smell of bubble bath, Jim tore his clothes off and dumped them into the trash can, certain they were ruined. Naked and surrounded by dirt on the pristine tiles, Jim slumped against the wall and got to work examining his body for wounds in the full length mirror.

He couldn’t remember anything that had happened after he’d put the gun into his mouth. He’d been so certain that that fiery blast and mind shattering bang had been confirmation that he’d properly pulled the trigger, but somehow, he’d must have been hit with a tranquilizer from a long distance before he'd managed to take the shot. Jim smiled faintly, the uneasy knot in his chest loosening somewhat with the explanation. Yes, and the rest must have been a hallucination caused by the drug.

So perhaps Sherlock’s friends were dead. Which was disappointing, because Jim had been so hopeful that Sherlock would prove himself, but maybe… Maybe he’d faked it. Maybe no one had gotten hurt, then that meant that Sherlock was everything Jim had been hoping…

Jim rubbed his chest, feeling for the change in his heartrate that such a thought normally would have elicited. Nothing. Nothing at all in fact, maybe a side effect of the drug was an almost imperceptible heartbeat?

Jim checked his pulse at his wrist, then his neck, dark eyes locked steadily on his own reflection as he searched in vain. It would come back, it was just the drug, not yet out of his system. Again, not the best plan for Mycroft, but it was possible that the drug just had failed to kill him.

Once he’d finally given up, Jim went back to examining his body. So far no noticeable wounds, no puncture marks, no cuts or scrapes from being dragged, no bruising on his back from falling. A brief thought of Sherlock catching him and easing him to the ground made Jim bite his lip but he didn’t entertain it for long, instead filing it away for later use.

On recognizing the state of his hair as a disaster, Jim raked his fingers through it just to try and get it flat, only to shriek in horror and revulsion as his fingers slipped inside what was apparently a gaping hole in the back of his head. Jim grasped the edge of the sink and tried not to collapse as he hyperventilated, mind rapidly rejecting the situation. Nothing was wrong. Nothing was wrong, he just needed to get into the bath. It was insane to think that he might... Oh god, no, absolutely impossible.

Jim hurriedly clambered into the hot water and bubbles, splashing a substantial amount over the edge in his rush to sit down. He was fine. Everything was fine, he just needed to get clean. Everything would make more sense when he was clean.

Jim put off washing his hair, repeatedly scrubbing at his skin until it was red raw and stinging before he dared to dip his head beneath the water. Distancing himself from the situation as he always did in interrogations, Jim worked shampoo into his hair, forcibly ignoring the hole and the way it made him want to be sick. When he was finally washed and rinsed, Jim allowed himself to come out of his daze, just drying his body and limping into the kitchen naked, unable to spare another look in the mirror in case it confirmed what he’d felt. Not that he'd felt anything. It was all fine.

The glass of ice water felt amazing after the hot bath and Jim eagerly tossed it back, quickly slowing to dainty sips as water poured out the hole in the back of his throat, a deeply horrified grimace on his face. This was fine, everything was fine. Jim pulled up a smile as he stared at the wall in front of him, convincing himself that he’d feel better when he acted happy.

Thankfully, the sandwich posed no problem aside from a few times getting caught on the edge of the hole in his mouth but Jim wrote it off as normal and focused on getting into bed, curling up under the blankets with a woolen hat pulled over his damp hair, chanting that this was fine. There was no way he could yet consider this new development in a logical manner, all that mattered was resting.

So Jim slept.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock yawned and sat up, blinking blearily at the unpainted wall opposite his bed. Safehouses were awful. It had only been a couple months since he’d been forced into hiding, but so far he’d moved around to five different locations, each just as boring as the last. Not a single interesting thing to look at, no pictures or books or even a strange wallpaper, all he had was his mind and the television. Mycroft just wanted him to suffer.

Sherlock swung his legs off the bed and stood, starting to go through the daily routine he’d adopted. Use the toilet, brush his teeth, put on a robe, then watch the news over a plate of raw toast and a cup of coffee. As he settled onto the couch and began to bite at the floppy, decidedly not crispy piece of bread, Sherlock’s attention was drawn to the strange news report that for some reason wasn’t talking about him.

“- There have been numerous reports of attacks on civilians by these individuals. They are to be considered very dangerous although unarmed and should you encounter one, avoid them at all costs, even if you recognize them. Bites are fatal and often result in similar symptoms as the affected. Symptoms include a lack of coordination, glassy eyes, an inability to think logically or recognize people or places, extremely aggressive behavior characterized by growling and biting, an appetite for living meat, numbness throughout the body and nonexistent pulse or breathing. Thankfully these individuals aren’t particularly fast or strong, so keep inside, barricade your doors and windows and keep quiet. So far, reports indicate that the attackers can be stopped by removing the head or destroying the brain-”

Sherlock stared at the screen, food forgotten, mind racing. Was this a hoax? Surely there was no way…

The sound of tires squealing followed by a loud crash pulled Sherlock from his thoughts to the window, eyes widening as he realized there were… the individuals from the report in the street, shambling after humans that were climbing over cars and racing as fast as they could to get away. As Sherlock stared, a woman was cornered by one of the creatures and before she could react, it sank its teeth into her neck and tore. More joined the frenzy and Sherlock covered his mouth, averting his eyes.

Above the rooftops, it was possible to see distant smoke rising from other crashes and house fires, countless police sirens wailing amidst the sound of screams and inarticulate moaning. It was real. Oh god, Sherlock pulled away from the window, hurrying to get dressed, he needed to get to John and Mrs. Hudson. Why on earth had Mycroft not yet contacted him, this was a proper disaster. Unless something had happened…

Sherlock scowled and shook off the thought, stuffing a bag with provisions before grabbing the gun Mycroft had given him and racing up to the rooftop. It took time, but Sherlock eventually worked his way to Baker Street without encountering a single infected person, signature coat flapping behind him, a familiar thing after these solitary months, especially in this frightening time. When he arrived, Sherlock crashed onto the fire escape with a loud clang that drew the attention of a few creatures in the alley below, then attracted even more by smashing through the window, before tumbling into the living room.

 

John screamed. He’d managed to barricade the stairs and together with Mrs. Hudson he’d been waiting in tense silence, their eyes locked on the television, when suddenly his supposedly dead flatmate crashed into the room. His reaction of cracking a fire poker into the side of Sherlock’s skull while shouting obscenities was fairly justified, all things considered.

Sherlock collapsed onto his knees, a hand clasped to the side of his head where blood was starting to seep into his curls, growling in pain, “Damn it, John! It’s me!”

“I know it’s you! You’re a zombie! Or I thought you were one, Christ, Sherlock, give me some warning.” John gritted his teeth and knelt, pushing Sherlock’s hand away so he could examine the mark as Sherlock scowled petulantly.

“I’m obviously not a… zombie, if you must call them that. You’re so dramatic sometimes.” Sherlock winced as John prodded the tender skin and pulled away, “I’m fine, we need to go.”

“Oh Sherlock dear, it’s so wonderful to see you!” Mrs. Hudson said brightly, moving to pull him to his feet so she could hug him despite Sherlock’s fake annoyed huff, “Oh, I knew it, I just knew you’d come back.”

“It’s about bloody time.” John muttered and Sherlock snorted.

“Would you relax, it was only a few months. You should be thankful plans changed, it was originally going to be several years.”

“ _Years_?!” John screeched and both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson winced at the high pitch, “You fake your own death and then waltz in here large as bloody life and you tell me that you were going to be gone for years, letting us all suffer, but I’m not supposed to have a problem with that because you think it’s a perfectly OKAY THING TO DO!”

“Shut up, John! We don’t want to attract the attention of those things, we can wait to discuss this until we’re somewhere safe.” Sherlock yelled, moving Mrs. Hudson out of the way.

“We were somewhere safe until you threw yourself through the window!” John shouted back, fists balled, but he shook his head and forced himself to be quiet, thinking through things. Obviously it hadn’t been years and they had much more pressing issues to deal with, so despite Sherlock’s inability to admit that he’d screwed up, it was probably best to focus on what was important.

“What do you suggest we do?”

Sherlock held a finger to his mouth, head tilting as he listened. The groaning noises were becoming louder, there were definitely more of them gathering. Probably the shouting hadn’t helped…

“Up onto the roof.”

John grabbed his bag full of supplies and picked up his poker again before helping Mrs. Hudson along with Sherlock out the window and up to the roof, not wanting to scare her too much by pulling out his gun just yet.

As they began to very slowly help Mrs. Hudson from building to building with the aid of a couple wood planks Sherlock had stashed on the roof for some similar plan, John spoke quietly, surveying the city as the distant fires grew, “You… deal with any of those things yet?”

Sherlock pursed his lips, mind flashing to the woman who’d been devoured earlier, “Not up close. I got over here as quickly as I could, I just woke up really.”

“You didn’t hear anything?” John murmured, “That’s how I found out, it happened pretty early…”

“Mycroft had my bedroom soundproofed, he said I was having night terrors and it was bothering the neighbors.”

John blinked and laid a plank down again, securing it on the other side, “Oh. About…?”

Sherlock remained silent and he instead left John behind, expression unreadable as he focused on guiding their landlady to the other side, eyes widening after a few moments of watching her when they were safely across, “Mrs. Hudson…” The slightly torn cardigan, the few spots of blood on her skirt, the pale look…

“Yes dear?” Mrs. Hudson smiled gently, eyes shining with unshed tears that she tried to hide.

“Oh god…” Sherlock gritted his teeth, pulling her into a hug, “Oh no, please…” He wanted to scream. He’d thought he’d lost her only a few months before and he’d been so relieved, but suddenly it was over again, it wasn’t fair…

“What’s wrong?” John frowned, stepping onto the roof.

“Nothing.” Sherlock shook his head, pulling up his mask as he stepped away from the woman to pick up the planks, “Nothing, we should just keep going.”

John licked his lips nervously, trying to study Mrs. Hudson for a sign, but when she only smiled kindly, he sighed and brushed away the feeling of worry. Sherlock was right, it was probably fine.


	3. Chapter 3

It took some time for Jim to convince himself to get out of bed. The warmth of the sheets against his now clean skin felt too good to simply abandon, but eventually his hunger won out. The sandwich had hardly satisfied he realized now that he was no longer exhausted and finally Jim crawled out of bed and sluggishly pulled on his comfiest clothes, some pajama pants and fuzzy socks and an oversized jumper, grimacing at how hard it was to get dressed with his suddenly clumsy hands. Even if mentally he was a mess, at least physically he was comfortable.

Jim shuffled into the kitchen and prepared some coffee out of habit before turning his attention to the refrigerator, stomach aching more than it ever had in the past, the pain steadily growing until it consumed his mind. Before his coffee was even ready, he’d devoured all the sandwich meat he had a dazed fervor and had begun to paw gracelessly through the remaining contents of his fridge, lips pulled back from his teeth in a feral snarl, eyes black and empty. After a few minutes, Jim came back to himself with the smell of coffee, quickly lurching back from the mess he’d made. He gulped the coffee black and scalding, too stunned by his mindless rummaging to care, just trying to figure out what the hell had just happened.

He couldn’t remember the last time that he had been hungry enough to eat food straight out of the container, probably back when he was a kid at least, home from the swimming pool and smelling of chlorine. And the daze, what had triggered that, how had he felt so powerless in his own body? And why was he still considering eating the raw steak and chicken in the freezer, there was no way it was palatable without preparation. Not to mention the fact that Jim Moriarty did not just tear into slabs of meat at just any time of day.

Jim drank more, calming his nerves, then gathered himself and dragged the large hunks of meat out, setting them all in some pans over the stove since it just felt wrong to eat them raw, no matter what his instincts wanted. He could get a disease or something. Wasn’t that what happened? He couldn’t think straight, there was too much going on.

Jim moved over to the window as he waited, seeking the warmth of the sun against his skin. He felt too cold still, surely it would help. But as he opened it, the sounds of the city finally reached him and he stared down at the mayhem below with a look of terror.

 

What on earth was going on? It looked like there had been some huge terrorist attack, all the smoke and the choppers circling overhead, the sound of screaming and gunfire and animalistic grunts, tanks rolling over abandoned cars and even corpses in the street below, soldiers gunning down people that moved with a jerky, inhuman gait, unhindered by the bullets tearing through them. Jim whimpered, shying back from the window as a searchlight swept through the smoke over the face of his building. Had a war broken out? How had this happened even, he couldn’t tell…

Jim stumbled dumbly over to the television and began searching for a news channel, eyes widening as the story came to him piece by piece. An infection. A rapidly increasing number of victims. Or monsters, the description differed from reporter to reporter. A man in the field got his hand torn off by one of the things live before they managed to cut the feed, rushing to apologize to viewers for the graphic material. Insatiable hunger. Dead eyes. Uncoordinated bodies.

Reanimated corpses of the recently deceased.

Mycroft hadn’t messed up. The gunshot had been real. The hole was real. He’d been dumped in Sherlock’s grave because they needed a body there. He was dead.

 

Jim slumped into a chair. For several minutes he listened to the sounds of the city and tried to overcome his shock, eventually wiping his eyes as he registered the dampness on his cheeks, on the verge of a real breakdown. It had seemed like such a cruel twist, to have him crawl out of a grave and give him a hole in his head as well as Armageddon to deal with on top of it, but oh god, it was all related… And wasn’t that harder to deal with really? Not only was the end of the world coming, but he was apparently an undead… thing. One of the creatures being gunned down for eating the living, just a reanimated slab of meat.

Just as Jim starting to feel like he needed to go back to bed, the smell of cooking meat drew his attention. Why have a panic attack when he could just eat, slipping out of consciousness as the congealed blood dripped down his chin? And the smell was so wonderful, he just wanted to… Jim cringed, rubbing the back of his hat over the hole to try and calm down. It was one thing to be comfortable with his own immorality, but actually being hungry for human flesh was an entirely different story, he’d never considered himself that kind of monster. What to do? He couldn't stay here, not with such temptations or danger. He needed someplace remote...

 

Instead of going to the kitchen, Jim stood and limped into his room, starting to pack. Obviously there was something different about him, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to think and reason and resist the urge to head downstairs to eat people, so he could just pack up the meat and head out into the country and maybe everything would be okay. At least it was a better plan than sitting around, waiting for a soldier to bust through the door and blast his brains out all over again.

Jim changed into some jeans and hiking boots, made certain that his hat was in place, then headed out, his backpack full of spare clothes and partially cooked meat in some plastic bags. On the way he snagged a sniper rifle which he strapped to his back and a handgun despite the reports that the creatures didn’t attack their own kind, just in case someone needed proof that he wasn’t one of them, or perhaps just in case they were the ones unconvinced…

 

The street was a mess and Jim had to tie a scarf around his mouth and nose to keep out the smell of burning flesh, head spinning as it made his stomach ache harder in hunger. He’d definitely need to pick up more food if he wanted to avoid going down that road, just the thought of someone screaming as he tore into them… It was simultaneously disgusting and alluring.

Jim limped right past the creatures, keeping his eyes down, though they hardly seemed to care about his too human posture. Just like he didn’t want to eat them because they didn’t smell appetizing, the reverse was also probably true. They just wandered past, their faces in varying states of decomposition, the rotten stench almost too much. Jim rubbed his eyes and tightened his grip on the gun, chanting that it was fine. It was just another problem to be solved, he could figure things out.

Eventually one did stop in front of him and if his heart had been beating, it surely would have frozen in his chest. For a few moments, it moved closer, empty eyes searching for something, its expression almost lost, before it turned its attention to Jim’s bag. Jim easily outmaneuvered it and continued on his way, breathing heavily in fear long after it had gone. They were so lost and vacant… Why hadn’t he been affected on the same level? Why was he so... fortunate? Or unfortunate, depending.

Some were on fire. They moved as if nothing had happened, until their bodies were too burnt to keep walking, then they collapsed in a charred husk, the remaining muscles twitching with the urge to move until at last the brain burned out. Others were riddled with bullets and were smeared with blood from victims. Jim saw a lot of partially eaten ones as well, as if when they’d reanimated the others had lost interest. And he saw corpses that had been stripped down to skeletons, too far gone to come back.

Jim adjusted his scarf and tramped through the thick ash, turning his eyes ahead. It was coming down heavily now, too much ash, covering the ground and obscuring remains, but somehow not muffling the crunch whenever bones were trodden underfoot. The air was full of it, it almost looked like snow.

But it wasn’t crisp and cold and clean. It was grey and it blotted out the sky, hanging ominously above the wreckage. Jim moved faster, trying not to fall, needing desperately to escape London.

And then, as he came across more living humans in groups leaving the city, as the sun began to set and the light slipped away, when he pulled out his flashlight and stole some goggles and extra food from a hardware store, it began to rain.

The city slowly fell behind them with each slogging step, lighting up the smoke and clouds orange as it burned on, and the ash began to turn to mud with the water, making it all the harder to continue on. Everything tasted charred yet Jim’s stomach still throbbed.

Jim saw some people sharing around phones to those who had family to contact, but he didn’t know what he would even say to his relatives. Still here. Not completely dead. Hope you’re safe.

The world is ending. Wish you were here.

There was nothing to really be done.


	4. Chapter 4

John walked ahead as Sherlock carried Mrs. Hudson, looking out for any of the infected, just in case. Now that they’d gotten out of the city and had to carry on down on the ground, they had to be much more cautious. So far they’d come across a few of the creatures but they were easy enough to avoid, as well as a family with an injured child, so John had helped with the supplies he thought they could spare, not wanting to just abandon them to their deaths.

Sherlock ignored Mrs. Hudson’s quiet fussing that she wasn’t that tired and that she could still walk, eyes fixed on the back of John’s head, and eventually she fell silent. What would John suggest if he knew? He’d probably insist that she get somewhere comfortable, then they could… do something, to save her from that fate.

But despite what he knew was logical, even though he was draining himself needlessly and that he ought to save his energy, even though she could turn and prove an even more immediate threat, Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to tell John or to set her down and handle it himself.

He loved her. She was like a mother to him, how could he just give her up like that? Everything was supposed to be better now that Moriarty was gone, that’s what Mycroft had been saying, so why was everything such a mess?

Why was he having nightmares about Jim, why was he losing Mrs. Hudson, why did there need to be an apocalypse just when things were supposed to be good?

Sherlock carefully shifted Mrs. Hudson in his arms, blinking at her as a few tears rolled down his cheeks. His voice was soft, just between them, “I love you.”

“Oh really now, there’s no need for this.” Mrs. Hudson said gently, “I’ll be fine, just put me down, dear.”

“I don’t want to.” Sherlock whispered. I can’t, he thought. I can’t say goodbye, I hate saying goodbye. I hate that I just keep getting attached.

“I love you too, Sherlock. You’ve become such a wonderful man, you’ll make it through this.” Mrs. Hudson said, a hand cupping Sherlock’s cheek carefully, “You’ll take care of John, won’t you? He loves you so much.”

Sherlock slowed to a stop, blinking harder as he set Mrs. Hudson down, “I can’t do this. There must be a way to remove it, I…”

“It happened so early, I didn’t even tell John.” Mrs. Hudson murmured, “There was nothing you could have done then and there’s nothing you can do now.”

Sherlock was quiet, voice trembling as he tried to think of something to say to make it better, “How do you want to… I don’t think I can do it…”

“I don’t want you to waste the bullets, you’ll need them.” She whispered, wiping her eyes as she started to cry, “I’ll just go have a seat and wait.”

Things were quiet. Ash drifted around them and Sherlock’s attention was drawn to the movement of John as he paused and looked back, realizing they weren’t right behind him. Mrs. Hudson smiled and pulled Sherlock down so she could place a kiss on his forehead, almost like a blessing, before she pulled away, “Don’t tell John right away. But I’ll miss him.”

Sherlock wanted to say no you won’t. You’ll be dead, you won’t remember. But he just nodded and gave her one last hug, kissing her cheek before helping her sit on some abandoned scrap metal on the side of the road, “I will. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

 

After a few moments, Sherlock straightened and pulled up his mask, quickly walking away before he could change his mind. As he walked past, John tilted his head in confusion, “Sherlock? What’s going on, what about Mrs. Hudson?”

“She said she wants to wait for some family member, we’re going to meet up ahead.” Sherlock said coldly, continuing on.

John stared after Sherlock, dread settling in the pit of his stomach. Before following, he jogged back to give Mrs. Hudson a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek, choking out a thank you before he ran after Sherlock again, throat tightening painfully. Of course she wasn’t waiting for someone. But that was it. Of course that was it. He should have seen it sooner. He pulled up his soldier mask.

John caught up to Sherlock and together they walked down the ash caked road, not exchanging a word.


	5. Chapter 5

Jim slogged through the mud, lacking the energy to even grimace now. Too many times already he’d fallen on his face and as his gait became more lumbering, the more he noticed the people around him shying away or jumping as they noticed him out of the corner of their eyes. It only took one trigger happy person to make a mistake, so he began to slow, falling behind the group. Eventually the road became clear again and the heavy rain faded to a drizzle, making Jim relax, though his coordination was still bad.

With a few more falls, Jim had to bandage his wrists and palms and the buffer made him feel more optimistic, though when he remembered that being dead probably meant no healing his joy faded.

 

As the sun rose, Jim sat on the side of the road and finally gave into his hunger, easily finishing off the large pack of chicken breasts he’d originally bought to last about a week. When he finished, somehow, his hunger felt less noticeable and Jim relaxed, setting his backpack down and laying back on the road, eyes falling closed. The sun broke through the clouds and his heart relaxed, body just soaking in the warmth. Everything was going to be fine. How could it not be?

After a half an hour of being lazy, Jim finally stood and set about changing into some clean clothes, grimacing at how even his underwear were caked with ash. He wrapped the dirty clothes in the plastic bag he’d used for the chicken, hopeful that he’d find somewhere to wash them, and started to use a bottle of water to clean off, though he kept his hat on, just in case. Not only was he dead and dealing with the apocalypse, but he also had to be dirty on top of it? Not a chance.

 

Sherlock squinted against the glare of the sun as it peeked out from the clouds, part of his mind considering how nice it would be to have a pair of sunglasses, “So we’ll head to the ferry towards Ireland. If it’s not operational, I’m sure there’s a boat at the port that can take us across. Then we can stay on the boat and make occasional trips to the mainland for supplies. We should probably start looking for crop seeds.”

“What about Mycroft? Has he not contacted you?” John asked, brow furrowing, “That’s strange isn’t it? I imagine he’d have a plan.”

“He hasn’t called and there’s no way I’m calling him.” Sherlock said, acting aloof. In reality, he’d already called Mycroft, multiple times. Each time, it just rang and rang and rang. That terrified Sherlock more than a busy signal. Mycroft always answered the phone.

“Of course, the old sibling rivalry carries on into the zombie apocalypse.” John teased, trying to lighten the mood even though he suspected Sherlock was lying.

“You shouldn’t call it that.”

“That’s what it is, isn’t it?”

“I really doubt it’s going to be the entire collapse of civilization.” Sherlock scoffed, “Humans will make a comeback.”

“Ah, like at the end of Shaun of the Dead.”

“I don’t know what that is, and I won’t respond to it.” Sherlock said with a sniff just as John nudged his shoulder, pointing ahead, “Look at that, is that a human or a… one of them?”

Sherlock was planning a witty retort but he was distracted by the figure, lifting a hand to block the sun. It was… someone washing off. So probably not one of them.

“A human. I’m guessing.” Sherlock murmured, leading John closer. It became more clear, but after a few more paces, Sherlock actually had to stop and frown, “But that’s not possible…”

John turned his attention to the figure and swallowed in surprise, quickly dragging Sherlock behind an abandoned car, “I… Is that Moriarty?”

“I believe so.” Sherlock said quietly, throwing caution to the wind as he moved to see better, a little fascinated by seeing him without the suit in such a relaxed way. Naked. Moriarty was naked out in the open and washing off his body and Sherlock was watching. Observing for purely mental reasons, just to study his character. How he behaved alone, that was fine.

Jim skimmed more water over his body, grabbing another bottle to wash certain private bits free of ash, a slight look of distaste on his face as he did so, scowling around the landscape in case anyone was nearby. John sat leaning against the car, trying not to feel uncomfortable with the nudity of someone he considered their greatest enemy and wishing Sherlock would tell him whatever plan he was clearly devising to get around the man.

Sherlock just stared.

“Sherlock, we should-” John started to speak but Sherlock jumped in shock as he realized what he’d been doing, slipping and bashing his face right into the side of the car loudly, causing him to cry out in pain and create even more noise. John grabbed Sherlock and dragged him out of sight, hoping Moriarty hadn’t heard, but it was too late. Jim stared hard at the car that he’d seen Sherlock disappear behind for a few moments before he grabbed his gun and crept over, certain his heart would be pounding if this was a normal situation, gritting his teeth as he rounded the corner and aimed.

John took a moment to glare at Sherlock for blowing their cover before he raised his hands, sighing as he stood, “You’re going to kill us then? While naked?”

“Don’t be stupid, why would I kill you?” Jim snapped, eyes widening at how badly his voice rasped from months of disuse. John looked a little surprised as well but he offered no sympathy, “Ah, it’s no fun unless it’s a game right? You probably want to blow up more old people first.”

“Oh shut up, you’re so obnoxious.” Jim muttered without any real bite, turning his attention to Sherlock where he was half kneeling on the ground with blood dripping from his nose where he’d bashed it into the car, dizzy in part from hitting his head but also from the sudden rush of blood somewhere very inconvenient. Perhaps he could button his coat before he had to stand…

“You’re not dead.” Jim said quietly.

“You…” Sherlock wanted to say neither are you, but he’d been so sure, that smell, that sound… He’d had skull and blood fragments on his clothes, and that had was covering up God knew what… But how was that possible, if destroying the brain meant stopping the things…?

Jim glanced at John as anxiety built in his chest, wondering is Sherlock would actually say anything about what he deduced, but thankfully things went his way for once since his return.

“I suppose you faked it too then. I should have figured.” Sherlock coughed, standing and quickly adjusting his coat, the gesture missed by John but easily caught by Jim, who seemed a little baffled.

“You should put some clothes on.” Sherlock suggested, covering his discomfort with a narrow eyed scowl.

Jim was quiet for a few moments before he let his arm drop and he shrugged, making his way back over to his bag, “Don’t shoot me with my back turned.”

John and Sherlock both let out shaky sighs, although John’s was as his fear faded, rather than from arousal. Sherlock cursed himself and began to wipe up his bloody nose with his sleeve, shifting uncomfortably and buttoning his coat to cover up as he stared at Jim’s backside and pretended it was just for the deductions, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”


	6. Chapter 6

“I don’t want him traveling with us.” John hissed as he and Sherlock walked, furtively glancing back at Jim who was marching along about thirty feet behind them, head down.

“He isn’t traveling with us.” Sherlock said with an eye roll, “He’s back there.”

“I don’t want him traveling near us. And especially not back there, he could shoot us.” John clenched his fists by his sides, itching to get out his gun.

“Does he look interested in shooting us? We’re all just trying to get somewhere safe, try and ignore him, John.”

“He isn’t just some schoolyard bully, don’t tell me to ignore him! Let’s act like we need to stop for some reason, then let him pass us and take care of him before something happens.” John urged, “This is the man who forced you to fake your death, he almost killed us all! There is no more game, there’s no reason to be interested in whatever fucked up things he does, please can we do this?”

“John.” Sherlock glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, then twisted around obviously to look back at Jim. Jim didn’t catch the movement, mind entirely focused on not stumbling. Sherlock weighed his words, then sighed, “Drop it.”

 

It had been over. God, it had all been over in that flash, and even though Sherlock had wept in part for being forced away from those dear to him while waiting for Mycroft to give him the all clear in that cold morgue, his feelings had blended and it was possible a few tears had been shed for Jim.

The slab beside his own, holding the very real body.

He’d been covered with a blanket by Molly out of… decency to his person perhaps. Or possibly to make it easier for Sherlock to stomach waiting in that room with the body of his enemy.

A bit of the blanket was smeared with blood. Sherlock had stared at it as he waited, blinking hard at the tears. His emotions were all over the place, who could say who he cried for really? He certainly couldn’t tell. There was a lurch as he leaned closer and read the toe tag.

Name of Deceased: Moriarty, James

No middle name. No age. No date of birth. No one to contact for said information. Nothing.

For as much as Sherlock enjoyed isolation, the thought of becoming this, a social orphan, his past existing only within his own mind and inaccessible after death… It left a foul taste in his mouth. No one would visit the grave had it been marked with Jim’s own name, and the fact that he was to be buried in Sherlock’s made it even more upsetting. Jim was always going to be a lost, misnamed creature.

Pulling back the blanket, Sherlock had almost expected there to be some other face there. And as he stared down at Jim’s slack features, he searched for a movement. He’d seen many bodies before, but never one quite like this. Not one that he genuinely thought wasn’t really dead.

The eyes were still open.

It was eerie, and Sherlock closed them to keep from seeing that empty, glazed look, wondering although it was illogical if someone had replaced Jim’s fiery eyes with ones made of rock. These weren’t right.

And he looked at the wound. Just to be sure. The last thing he wanted was to start a proper breakdown in front of his still living nemesis, but seeing that hole, all the concealed blood and skull fragments splattered in his hair, it was all the confirmation he’d needed. The game was over.

 

But there was Jim. His body somehow still carrying on, though his pace was becoming less steady as time passed, his eyes rekindled.

With each glance, he fell further behind, and despite everything, Sherlock couldn’t just let him trail like he was, slipping between his fingers yet again. He slowed in response, ignoring John’s passive aggressive sighs, and continued to watch.

 

Jim adjusted his bag, body burning up even though the sky was gloomy and cool, trying to focus on his numb feet even as his stomach begged for food. Part of him was thankful for his slowness. At least it meant that he couldn’t catch up to Sherlock and John, it would ruin his plans of keeping his version of life if they had to kill him for turning rabid. Would it be strange to pull out his barely cooked steak?

Jim worked to curb his appetite with beef jerky, drifting into a stupor which he only snapped out of as his foot caught a rock and he was sent staggering. He could sense John stiffening ahead as he noticed the inhuman movement, eyes flicking up to watch John whispering to Sherlock about his observation.

Would they put him down? Sherlock seemed to suspect, surely he’d have known the true fate of his corpse, so he must view Jim’s state as a minor enough threat as it was. But John. John could be so reckless and impulsive, and while Jim might wish Sherlock had a better handle on his pet, he knew that wasn’t the case. John would do what he felt was right if it came up. Hell, he might even shoot Jim for just being himself, zombie status aside.

He slowed more, longing for his isolated travels, or even willing to take the larger group of people who hadn’t known who he was, anything was better than the dread of knowing John could turn around and put one through his face at any moment. Maybe he could just slip away undetected.

He hit another rock and staggered again, this time failing to correct himself. His uncoordinated hands didn’t come up to protect him and Jim sprawled out on the asphalt, cheek getting scraped bloody as air left his body with a huff. Damn it. Fuck. Jim tested his limbs, realizing the act of getting himself up would be too complex for his clumsy body in its current food deprived state. John would know, he would do something, please god, let them just keep walking. Let them leave, there was no way he could protect himself like this. They didn’t need to look back, they would leave.

 

Sherlock paused in the road, body half turned as he watched Jim lay still. Seconds ticked by. Why wasn’t he getting up? John huffed impatiently but Sherlock ignored him, taking a few steps closer to try and see what the problem was. Jim’s eyes were closed, his bandaged hands still flat by his sides, as if he hadn’t even tried to stop his own fall.

“He isn’t traveling with us, remember?” John whispered quietly.

Sherlock glanced back, expression hard, “I… think there’s something wrong.”

“He tried to kill us, please, let’s just go.”

“…He’s still important to me.” Sherlock hadn’t admitted it aloud before. It was something that had been clear between himself and Jim, but judging by John’s look of shock, he hadn’t realized. Sherlock turned back to Jim and continued closer, kneeling next to his body.

What if his ruined brain had finally gotten the better of his condition? Maybe this was it, permanently this time. Could Jim really be gone?

Sherlock held a finger over his slightly open lips, blinking hard as he felt no air. Permanently dead or a zombie, either way, he certainly wasn’t alive anymore.

“Are you going to kill me?”

Jim’s voice was raspy and faint. His skin radiated feverish heat and the way he made no move to get back up made it pretty clear that he wasn’t in a good state. Sherlock felt his own heart stutter at the confirmation that he was still conscious though. Better than nothing.

“Is that what you’d want?” Sherlock couldn’t tell anymore. That suicidal man from before might be gone, especially in an apocalypse with everyone out to kill him.

Jim didn’t respond. Neither knew the answer.

Sherlock placed a hand on Jim’s back, underneath his backpack, just feeling his body, solid and animate. While death may be still on the table, that didn’t mean he didn’t need other things. After a few moments, Sherlock moved to open Jim’s bag, checking the half cooked meat with a look of disdain. While it may do Jim good, John really didn’t need to see Jim eating something so clearly wrong. Sherlock instead closed the bag back up and pulled out some food from his own, easing Jim into a sitting position against a nearby abandoned car.

John sat in the road, feeling defiant.

Sherlock passed Jim the meat and watched in amazement as the other, less human side of him took over, eating like it was the end of the world. What was he, if he could shift between human reason and undead instinct like this? A mutation, a different breed? What made Jim so special that his symptoms weren’t as severe? Had he yet eaten the living?

He’d need to be studied.


	7. Chapter 7

When Jim had finally finished eating ravenously and had slipped into a doze, John joined them in the shade of the car, slumping into the side a few feet away from Jim, uncomfortable with the idea of getting too close.

“Want me to take a look at him?” It felt right to defer to Sherlock. While John trusted his own medical expertise above Sherlock’s, it seemed more like Sherlock was in charge where Jim was concerned primarily for his strange connection to him.

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

John nodded, turning to look out at the lush landscape. He wanted to believe that the abandoned cars had simply run out of gas, but part of him suspected that wasn’t the case. In television shows that was always the thing, wasn’t it? People turned into zombies and ended up wandering around their vehicles, sometimes still strapped in their seatbelts even. An attack wasn’t out of the question.

“Is he bitten?” John asked quietly.

“No.”

Well that at least was one less thing to worry about. At least he wouldn’t start attacking them in their sleep. John picked at some grass growing in a pothole and tried to breathe, throat closing up. Of all the people that they knew that had to be bitten, why did it have to be Mrs. Hudson? She’d done nothing wrong, she was wonderful and kind and she tried her hardest to be good to them both… Why couldn’t it have been Jim? She had deserved better, but in the end they were forced to travel with and even care for this psychopathic serial killer… John set his jaw and stood, shaking his head hard.

“We need to go.”

Sherlock was still kneeling beside Jim, watching for signs of life, but at John’s words he looked up with a furrowed brow, “John. I’m not leaving him.”

“You don’t owe him shit!”

“Shhh.” Sherlock said, eyes shifting around them for any possible threats that John’s outburst could have attracted and John reluctantly lowered his voice.

“You don’t owe him shit.”

“He d-… I _thought_ that he had died because of me. Because I shook his hand. Because I didn’t see how isolated he was. I blamed myself for it. I can’t just leave him all over again.”

“He wouldn’t do the same for you.”

Sherlock wanted to point out that they couldn’t know that, but he changed tactics to target John’s morality, “John. It would lower us. Wouldn’t it? To abandon _anyone_ in need, it’s not who we are.”

John could tell Sherlock was just saying what he wanted to hear. The callous way he had treated the victims of Jim’s crimes, saving Jim wasn’t about being a good man. It was about being a selfish one, being someone who would rather seek out his own satisfaction than consider reason. Seeing Sherlock act this way hurt, because what if all their years together where John had tried to help Sherlock improve himself with Mycroft and Greg and Molly’s help had been a waste? What if Sherlock was tempted, what if he ended up an evil person without conscience, what if John lost his only friend to a monster that he was sure only wanted to destroy them?

But he couldn’t say no.

“Then how do we bring him with us?”

“We’ll need to get one of these cars running.” Sherlock sighed, looking around, “It’ll be a four day trip to Holyhead as long as we only take short breaks if we walk, but with a car we’ll get their much quicker.”

“And when he improves, what then?” John frowned, “Are you going to… incorporate him into your plan? Living on a boat with Moriarty, being forced to trust a serial killer?”

“He isn’t a serial killer.” Sherlock corrected.

“There you go, focusing on only one part of what I said. Sherlock, I’m serious. Please understand that this, being near him when he put bombs on me and nearly killed both of us several times… it’s hard for me.” John said, trying to reason with Sherlock.

“And you’re addicted to danger. There’s no reason to deny it anymore, there aren’t any normal people around to judge you.” Sherlock sneered, “You’re probably more sadistic than Moriarty, really, he wouldn’t just shoot a man for someone he just met unless he stood to gain from it. At the end of this, anyone left over will be a psychological mess, no one will give you a second glance.”

John pursed his lips, looking away, “I shot that cabbie because I care about people. You’re a better person than him.”

“If you cared about people you would have just become a doctor. You chose the army because you had an itch.” Sherlock purred, pupils dilating in excitement, the rush of using deductions to cut someone down going to his head, “You killed. And you liked it. So you moved in with me because you wanted more of it.”

“What the hell are you doing this for?” John said. His voice was hoarse, almost cracking. Did Sherlock want him to leave? After everything they’d been through, was he really fine with giving him up just for… Moriarty?

Sherlock rose, moving to grip John’s shoulders, “I’m doing it so you stop pretending and get serious. I need you, John. I don’t want you to go, but I can’t just leave Moriarty here to die either. So accept that you both have flaws and that we can work as a team to get out of this.”

“How can I trust a person who tried to kill me?”

“You don’t need to trust him. But you do need to listen to me when it comes to him.” Sherlock squared his shoulders, voice strong, “I vouch for James Moriarty. No matter what happens, I take responsibility for everything he does.”

John managed a nod.

Sherlock sat back down and after a few moments, John followed. Together they watched Jim.


	8. Chapter 8

Jim awoke in darkness, huddled in borrowed blankets between Sherlock and John in the back of the car. He still felt a little dizzy but thankfully the food had done its job bringing down his fever and making him a little more coordinated, as well as easing his stomach pains. John yawned and slumped into Jim’s side more, completely unaware of how cozy he’d gotten since initially falling asleep leaning against the car window. Jim grimaced slightly and strained to see, unsure of what had happened.

They hadn’t shot him. He dimly recalled his exchange with Sherlock, but anything past that was blank. Somehow Sherlock must have convinced John to stay with him until he recovered. Or John had decided they couldn’t abandon someone in need. But surely now that he was better, they would want him gone. At least John probably did, he hated him, and no amount of unconscious cuddling would change that.

Jim eased John back against the door and slipped out from under the blanket, stealthily escaping by climbing into the front seat and out through the driver’s door. He shouldered his bag and smoothed out his clothes in preparation for his long walk, eyes flicking up to the stars above.

In the end, he’d even lost his enjoyment in them, something he’d never dreamed possible. Astronomy was his secret passion, a way of combatting the boredom when even constructing the most complex cases failed to relieve the pressure in his skull. But things built up too much. He stopped visiting the countryside to blink up at them, had stopped working on his research plotting the dynamics of each distant asteroid. The game no longer satisfied, so he’d turned his attention to the problem.

Space’s inability to help him was a symptom of this illness, Jim had reasoned. Nothing he nor Sherlock did would ever cure this disease like his permanent solution would. This would save them both.

 

Jim ran his hands across his cheeks to smear away his tears, wondering if a loss of tear duct control was part of his new, more isolating condition. He’d never had so much difficulty fighting them off before. What if they’d started to decompose and that’s why they were weak? Jim shook his head at his thoughts and applied some gauze and tape to his cheek, adding the scrape to his growing list of injuries from tripping. No one ever warned you about that in the apocalypse.

Just as he started to limp on his way, Jim heard the click of the door handle behind him. For several moments he stood still, feeling Sherlock’s presence on the other side as Sherlock felt his own, then the sound of the door swinging open came and Jim sighed.

The door closed.

The grass rustled under Sherlock’s feet.

 

“I don’t think you should go.” Sherlock said. Direct. That was one nice thing about Sherlock. He didn’t have to ask questions like, “What are you doing?” or, “Are you leaving?” He just knew. Although being so upfront about what he thought was pretty rare. Usually he scowled and danced around things.

“John does.” Not that Jim gave a damn what John thought. But he was a threat. Sherlock could read between the lines.

“John is under control.”

Jim turned his head slightly, offering Sherlock a sliver of his face to look at in the faint moonlight, “Why did you save me?”

Sherlock didn’t speak. Jim knew why. And to force him to say it was hardly fair. A few moments passed, both of them testing the other.

Rather than give in, Jim quit playing. He wasn’t going to tell Sherlock that he needed reassurance, so instead he just adjusted the straps of his bag and began to limp forward, eyes set on the dark horizon. He could hear Sherlock following him, the change in grass to asphalt audible.

They walked in silence and Sherlock gradually moved up alongside Jim, long legs easily beating his limp.

“You shouldn’t have died. I may want everything to be clever, but you jump to conclusions.” Sherlock said.

Jim snorted through his nose, “I didn’t jump to any conclusions. I’d been planning it for months, you bastard. It was the next logical step.”

“Committing suicide is a logical step?” Sherlock said sarcastically, giving Jim a snotty smile.

“It’s not my fault that you didn’t see that it was coming. I gave you enough signs.”

Sherlock’s snotty smile faded but he continued to watch Jim, a little in awe of his handsome, cruel face. He resented Sherlock for not seeing, for putting him in the position he did, for not killing himself as well. Sherlock caught Jim’s wrist and stopped him, a little taken aback as the force of Jim’s glare turned to him.

“You… You started this all by playing the game. I wouldn’t have threatened you if you hadn’t started this.”

“I wasn’t playing the game, I was solving the problem.”

“What’s the difference? We play the game to solve the problem.”

“We play the game to put off the problem. But the problem never goes away. You know better than to leave a melody unfinished.” Jim said, eyes dark as he spoke his next words with total conviction, “I’m disappointed in you.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, eyes narrowing. He’d disappointed Jim. Jim had _expected better from him_. It made him angry, how could he have known?

“I can’t just leave everything to jump off a building just because you’re a suicidal brat. I actually have people that give a shit about me and a fulfilling life outside of your little game, you’re not as important to me as you think you are.”

It was meant to hurt Jim and despite his best efforts, it did. He did manage to keep the pain from registering on his face, instead gently pulling his arm from Sherlock’s grasp and starting to walk away, “I realized that when I crawled out of your empty grave.”

Sherlock scowled after Jim, partially wanting to yell but not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing him lose his cool.

“Remember to eat something this time, _rotter_. You’ll make an easy target if you keep acting so stupid.”

Jim kept walking, the sound of Sherlock heading back to the car soon becoming covered up by the chirping of crickets and cicadas.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock had been in a foul mood all morning and although John wished it was for some other reason, he had an idea it was about Jim. Personally he’d been relieved to wake up with him gone. It saved him from the awkwardness of traveling with Jim Moriarty and trying to make small talk over meals or something like that. He unsettled John, at least now he could relax.

Or so he thought. Not so easy with Sherlock sulking, staring down anything and everything they passed with his icy eyes. What a brat.

“Want something to eat?”

No response.

“Sherlock, you need to keep your energy up. Look, I have biscuits.” John shook the bag.

No response.

John sighed, looking away, “Well at least we don’t need to deal with that raw meat smell anymore, whatever the hell that was. Do you think he could be a cannibal?”

“Oh shut up John.” Sherlock said loudly, hating the implication since it was only a matter of time before John drew the right conclusion about what Jim was, “He probably had to kill some of those things, that’s where the smell came from.”

“Well I’m not you am I, how could I know that?” John said as he stopped short to stare at Sherlock, “I’m just trying to make you relax, your pouting is putting me on edge.”

“I’m not pouting!”

“Oh yes you are! You did the same thing with Irene when you thought she was dead, you’re upset because you lost yourself a little playmate.”

Sherlock scoffed, “This is completely different. I thought she’d been murdered John.”

“And you thought Moriarty killed himself. You miss the game.”

“It wasn’t a game, it was a problem!” Sherlock shouted, just wanting to say something John didn’t understand to belittle him so he’d be left alone.

“If you ever explained anything that happened between you and Moriarty, I’d probably get that, but you’re just so bloody stubborn and condescending that you can’t be arsed to say what’s so great about him since you just want to feel superior! _Oh look at me, I’m Sherlock Holmes, no one can ever compete with me except for Moriarty because we have a “special connection”! Our relationship isn’t like normal people’s relationships though, he’s my arch enemy that I don’t hate!_ As if that makes any sense!” John shouted back.

“Are you jealous?” Sherlock sneered, aiming to prod at John’s fragile masculinity and subtle homophobia to get him to retreat.

“Are you implying there’s something to be jealous of?” John said, smiling triumphantly, “You’re not as clever as you think. Must not be such a unique relationship after all. I bet you want something normal from him.”

“I do not want to be friends with Moriarty.” Sherlock said sternly, feeling annoyed with John for pushing the topic so much.

“You didn’t want to be friends with Irene either.” John pointed out.

Sherlock studied John, expression cold. He chose his next words carefully, “John. I don’t want to talk about this. It’s making me uncomfortable.” Surely John would back off. It was specific enough to imply something was bothering him but vague enough to disguise what or why it was.

“Sherlock…” John hesitated, head tilting slightly, “If we see him again, what are you going to do?”

When he got no response, John continued, “Please don’t… lose what makes you good. I believe in you. You don’t need to throw away all your hard work just because of Moriarty…”

“Do you really think my decent behavior enters into our dynamic? He’s not going to try to make me evil John, he doesn’t care about that.”

“Then what does he care about?”

Sherlock considered, “Satisfaction.”

“In what way?”

“In any way he can find.”

John nodded for a few moments, accepting Sherlock’s explanation, before deciding they probably needed to loosen some of the tension and smiling wryly as he joked, “Sexually?”

“Oh shut up.” Sherlock shook his head and went back to walking, fighting a smile.

“It’s true though. He probably acts like such a twat because he needs to get laid.” John snickered, “The same goes for you, you’re very pissy sometimes.”

“I am not!” Sherlock huffed, cheeks reddening slightly as his mind reasoned that it would be easier for them to both fix that problem together.


	10. Chapter 10

Jim stumbled into the town of Dunstable in a daze and collapsed on a bench, blinking around the empty street as he wondered what next he should do. He’d originally been thinking of heading back to his childhood home, it was remote enough that he’d be left alone by both humans and zombies, but getting there could be a problem with how bad at walking he was. Driving would surely be no better, not with such slow reflexes…

There was always the train of course. Jim checked his wallet, relaxing when he saw that he had grabbed more than enough even in his panic. As long as it was still running, he could probably get to Holyhead in no time. He steadied himself then stood, limping towards the train station.

Going home would help Jim sort out his head. There were plenty of deer and rabbits in the woods around the little cabin, as long as he kept his wits he could catch enough to satisfy his instincts. He’d always been good at setting traps. And maybe, with some time alone, he could figure out some other way to cope with isolation.

He bought a train ticket from the woman at the station. When questioned, she shrugged, not concerned, “Some people are getting in such a huff about these monsters but the army will get ‘em before they get us. No reason to leave. It’s just a waste of money.”

Jim drifted into a pub across the street from the station to wait for his train to arrive, stopping short as he was confronted with… a normal pub. With the average amount of people one might find in a normal pub on any typical afternoon, either talking quietly or watching the football game on the television mounted in the corner. Jim smoothed out his clothes and took a seat in a booth, ordering himself some water and a steak.

It was only after the waitress had left that he had second thoughts about eating in front of such an unpredictable crowd but he decided canceling the order might draw too much attention. He could pretend to pick at it then ask for it in a box when he was ready to leave. He could eat on the train, people would mind their own business there.

A few people were already looking over at his sniper rifle. Damn. He needed to be more careful, it was just that he hadn’t realized people might not be experiencing this thing like people in London had.

“Nice gun.”

Jim glanced up at the man leaning against the edge of his booth seat, instantly on high alert, “I… Thank you.”

“What’s that for then?”

“The… zombies.”

A few people snickered and the other conversations went silent, everyone’s attention turning to Jim.

“Little thing like you, fighting zombies? You ain’t even got any blood on your clothes, do you think we’re really so gullible to believe that? Little city boy decides he wants to play a joke on the country people, is that it?”

“No, sir.” Jim murmured, eyes down. He hated acting submissive to people that didn’t matter like this, but as long as the man left him alone he would do anything he had to to survive, “There were zombies on the streets. I just didn’t get attacked by any of them.”

“You believe everything you see on the telly?”

“I saw them.” Jim corrected, fists clenching a little, “And the army too, haven’t you seen anything on the news about it?”

“It’s just a joke.” Someone called, and people laughed.

“He probably just wanted to look tough.”

The waitress brought out Jim’s food and water and a part of him hoped that the man would leave him alone, but he didn’t. Jim’s stomach growled loudly. A few more people snickered.

“You ain’t impressive. Bet that gun’s not even real.”

Jim took a few sips of his water, feeling some of it slosh into the hole in the back of his throat. He hated feeling powerless, no one had had the gall to screw with him since he was a child… He wanted to pull off his hat and show the bastards what he was. That would shut them up real fast. But then they would probably do something to him. He reigned in his anger, shaking his head slightly.

“Can you please leave me alone? I’d just like to eat.”

“You don’t say?” Someone seated one booth down muttered, making more people laugh. Jim’s face burned. The man leaned in closer.

“Then eat.”

Jim picked up his fork and knife, eyes staring ahead without actually seeing anything as he began to cut up the steak. Oh god, the mouth-watering smell drew an involuntary moan to his lips. The people burst into laughter and the man that was looming over him chuckled, “What, does that turn you on? Freak.”

Jim closed his eyes, bringing the bite up to his lips. What choice did he have? There was no way they’d just let him leave. And as his teeth sank into the meat, Jim began to feel his awareness fade. The zombie was taking over. His body stood and Jim slipped away, praying that he would come back.


	11. Chapter 11

When Sherlock and John pulled up in front of the train station of Dunstable Town following Sherlock’s hunch that Jim would have ended up there, they were confronted with a shocking scene, the pub across the street surrounded by police vehicles and more than a few bandaged men. Sherlock jumped out before John could react and raced onto the scene, leaving John to kill the engine.

“Agent Holmes, SIS, what’s happened here?” Sherlock said as he flashed a badge, then offered the stunned officer his hand to shake.

“I… Well, allegedly a man came into the pub for a quick bite, didn’t like the tone some of the lads took with ‘im, started quite the fight with them, punching and biting and spitting and all that. Couple of ‘em wrestled the mental bastard outside and ‘e took off, no clue where he went.”

“Green wool hat?” Sherlock asked breathlessly.

“Yessir.”

“Damn.” Sherlock grimaced and began to look around, taking off in a direction just as John got to him. Sherlock led the way, racing down alleys and around corners, easily picking up Jim’s trail as John puffed after him, cursing how quickly he’d gotten out of shape in just a few months. And Sherlock felt unsteady with the rush of pleasure deductions brought on, barely fighting a broad smile despite knowing full well that Jim might have just turned several people into the mindless undead.

Eventually they tracked Jim down to a small alley where he was huddled behind a garbage skip, hiding from the police. Sherlock raced to his side and knelt, grabbing Jim’s wrists, “Are you alright? Tell me what happened.”

Jim cried out in shock, certain he was caught, before he pulled his arms into his chest, “It doesn’t matter. Are you going to turn me in?”

“Have I ever turned you in before?”

“When have you ever caught me redhanded?”

“Fair.” Sherlock admitted, glancing up at John who was checking both ways in the alley for signs of trouble, “Let’s get back to the car, we can explain on the drive.”

“I have a train ticket.” Jim protested lamely.

“And you’ll just wait until someone on a huge form of public transportation turns into a zombie and decides to take a bite out of you? Which chances are is going to happen.”

Jim grimaced as he glanced at John, realizing Sherlock had made his claim in front of him so Jim couldn’t be honest, “I… I can take my chances.”

“A train with locks on the doors moving at high speed, you’d be trapped and we can’t risk that.” Sherlock smirked, offering Jim his hand, liking that he had the upper hand.

 “Moriarty, you should probably just come with us, Sherlock would really like it even though he’s too afraid to say so.” John added, robbing Sherlock of his advantage without even realizing.

Sherlock’s smirk dissolved into a scowl and Jim finally took his hand, using it to pull himself up as triumph and pride bloomed in his chest, “Fine, if you’re so desperate to be around me. Looks like I’m important after all.”

John seemed confused by the words and Sherlock growled, pulling his hand away and starting to lead the way back towards the car. Jim toddled along as best he could, heart sinking a little when John actually helped him get his bag on right, as if he was really so helpless that even _John_ was pitying him now.

 

As John went back alone to fetch the car so Jim wouldn’t be recognized, Sherlock and Jim waited in an alley about a block away, both lost in thought. Jim’s face was half obscured by the shadow of the building beside them and Sherlock was struck by how different each side looked when he risked a glance. The left side was lit by the golden sunlight and it seemed ablaze and alive, his eye golden brown, the corner of his lips turned up in just the barest hint of a genuine smile as he basked in the fleeting warmth. The other eye was pitch black and dead, his features blue and cold, it reminded Sherlock of how he’d looked lying so small on that slab in the morgue and he shivered slightly at the stark contrast. Was it a blessing to have Jim back, available for new possibilities, or a curse because he was so dangerous now? At any time he might go into a stupor and attack... And yet Sherlock had vouched for him and had invited him back despite witnessing the aftermath of his attack at the pub. He certainly was foolish when it came to people he was… fascinated by.

“The officer said you… bit. But judging by your teeth and skin, I’d say you didn’t, or at least you didn’t break skin. Any memory of that?”

Jim was quiet, processing the alarming news, then he shook his head, adjusting his hat in a distantly nervous gesture, “No.”

“The trigger is food? Or food and danger?”

“I don’t know for certain. Food tipped me over the edge but I had already been feeling distant when they started harassing me.” Jim sighed.

Sherlock looked away, resolving to do more experiments to figure that out, before something caught his attention, “They were harassing you?”

“They saw my gun.”

“That was stupid of you not to hide it.”

“Yes.” Jim agreed, offering no argument.

Sherlock felt a little uncomfortable, expecting some banter, so instead he tried his hand at what Jim might say to explain his forgetfulness, “Although with a hole in your head you probably can’t help it.”

Jim’s eyes flitted downward and Sherlock narrowed his eyes, searching for a sign that his words had sunk in. Jim didn’t seem like he agreed or was annoyed or anything, more perhaps… uncomfortable?

“May I see it?”

“I’d rather you didn’t touch it.”

“I didn’t ask to touch it, I asked to see it.”

“And I’m saying that if I show it to you, you can’t touch it.”

Sherlock leaned in more, mind racing. Jim was really bothered. Was he embarrassed to have Sherlock looking at something so private, let alone touching it? Maybe he was traumatized by the memories? Or just having a reminder that he was dead and that a good part of his brain had been blasted out of his head, what if he thought he wasn’t a match for Sherlock anymore? And what if he really wasn’t?

“I won’t touch it.”

“Then I’ll show you.” Jim inclined his head in a slight nod as John pulled up, before he moved fully into the light, skin glowing with energy as he climbed into the back of the car. Sherlock took a few shaky breaths, then climbed into the passenger seat, eyes ahead as they began to drive back onto the main road, mind whirling with excitement. It was sick and twisted and intimate, somehow, some way, Jim Moriarty had agreed to let him close enough to do damage and was trusting him not to. Maybe there was a chance to further their relationship after all.


	12. Chapter 12

[“Love, it will get you nowhere.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UqLRqzTp6Rk)

[You’re on your own,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UqLRqzTp6Rk)

[Lost in the wild.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UqLRqzTp6Rk)

[So come to me now.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UqLRqzTp6Rk)

[I could use someone like you.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UqLRqzTp6Rk)

[Someone who’ll kill on my command,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UqLRqzTp6Rk)

[And ask no questions.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UqLRqzTp6Rk)

[(I’m gonna make you, I’m gonna break you, I’m gonna make you,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UqLRqzTp6Rk)

[A fucking psycho)”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UqLRqzTp6Rk)

 

Jim nodded with the music, eyes distant as he mouthed the words. John was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat. Sherlock’s brow furrowed deeper as he studied the terrain.

If things weren’t so bad in Dunstable, maybe this trip was pointless. Wasn’t that a sign after all that people were holding together? The army would take care of the stragglers, this might be an overreaction after all.

Occasionally they passed one or two zombies in the fields, munching on the carcasses of livestock. Those that survived being rounded up could feed on safe meat until a cure was found. It was quite possible the answer to this entire problem could be solved with Jim. Something about him was more resistant to the infection, they could experiment on him, figure out whatever he produced or didn’t produce that inhibited the process, the medicine could be administered to everyone…

So why were they still driving for the coast? Why hadn’t Sherlock tried to contact his brother or some other government official, telling them that he’d found an abnormal zombie? Was it because he was scared of what they’d do to Jim? Or was it because he was certain Jim wouldn’t want to be forced into a position like that, strapped down and analyzed and violated into saving humanity?

The song faded out and the radio host gave an update on the worldwide situation, explaining that most major cities had been overrun and destroyed, that it was best to stay in unpopulated areas with weapons, reassuring everyone that help was on the way. He rattled off a phone number twice for anyone who had any valuable information regarding the condition before launching right back into another song.

Jim wrinkled his nose and leaned up, “John, please turn off the radio.”

“No, I like this song.” John said stubbornly.

“John. Please, I don’t feel well.” Jim insisted.

John glanced back in the mirror, eyes widening as he realized Jim might be about to vomit, so rather than arguing he turned off the radio and rolled down Jim’s window so he could get come air, turning his eyes ahead. Jim didn’t bother to explain that it wasn’t his stomach and he instead rested his chin on the edge of the window, watching the scattered zombies as cool wind blew across his face. Aimlessly staggering around, their eyes lost and full of sorrow, maybe being in this new state wasn’t much of a difference than before. Searching for something, anything to feed his urges but never able to get his hands on what would permanently satisfy him, no, nothing had changed… He was very valuable now though. Someone with an evolutionary advantage. And if caught, they would bottle up that advantage and pass it around to the rich and powerful, then some of the middle class who could scrape together enough money to save their loved ones, then they’d dump his corpse somewhere to rot. He wasn’t useful past this. He was just a liability.

“Sherlock, do you think that it’s possible for you solve this?” John suggested quietly, “Like they said, is there any way for you to study these things and find a solution?”

“No.” Sherlock said curtly. He couldn’t indulge John at this point, not with Jim in the car, his mind most likely in the same place as Sherlock’s own. They knew nothing crucial about the condition, that was a ridiculous suggestion. Best to just ignore it.

 

They cooked beans over a fire on the side of the road when it got dark, once they’d convinced themselves that they were relatively safe, and Sherlock watched Jim as he stared at the flames, light dancing across his hard face. He looked in control now, but unless he got some meat into him, they’d certainly be in trouble. Or if he got some meat into him. Either way Jim wasn’t the safest person to be around.

Sherlock resolved to ask about the steak in Jim’s bag when John was asleep, if it was in any condition to finish cooking now, if he had any other rations. If not, they could need to kill a cow which would arouse John’s suspicions. Sherlock could just hear the pestering already, “Why the hell does he need special treatment? Sherlock? He can’t just eat some bloody beans or bread, nooo, he’s got to have a five star meal doesn’t he?”

Blah blah blah.

It really was only a matter of time before John worked it out. He wasn’t that thick. A dead man by all accounts that constantly wore a hat after “faking” blowing his head off, who only ate meat. A man that had stumbled out of a pub after attacking multiple people when he had never gotten physically involved in a fight before, a man who walked clumsily where he hadn’t used to and didn’t change the bandages on his palms and cheek because the wounds didn’t heal. At least John hadn’t overheard the biting comment, that might give it away.

“Here you go, J--… Moriarty.” John caught himself, passing Jim a can and a fork.

Jim regarded it for a few moments before smiling wanly at John and starting to push beans into his mouth, making a show of chewing and swallowing the uninteresting slop, “Mmm, thank you John.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but accepted John’s offer of toast smeared with butter, an involuntary sigh leaving him, “It’s been a long time.”

“You haven’t been eating toast then?” John asked, looking up. He started to smile, enjoying the casual conversation. It was better than going over travel plans or other stuff like that.

“I was too depressed to cook.” Sherlock gave John a sly smile.

“You just put the bread in and push down the lever, it’s not hard!” John broke into laughter. It felt good to have Sherlock back, joking back and forth with him again. Since his return things had hardly seemed real, all the zombies and arguments and running, but this felt right. Like it wasn’t a dream, like he’d really gotten his best friend back. Sherlock wasn’t dead. It was a miracle.

“Eh, what’s the point? I just ate it raw, it was very disappointing. Not crunchy at all.”

John snickered, glancing at Jim, “What about you then? Been eating toast in your time away then have you?”

Jim broke his concentration from his beans, lips thinning as he processed the question. After a few moments, he shook his head, “Er, no. I didn’t have much time to eat, very busy, you know how it is.”

John laughed harder, perhaps a little giddy, but feeling better than he had in a long time, “Oh of course, your criminal empire can get so hectic when you fake your death.”

Jim shifted his eyes to the darkness around him, wondering what might be lurking out of sight, “Something like that.”

“Well, if you’re going to be traveling with us, which I’m fine with as long as you don’t try to kill us, at least you can help keep Sherlock entertained and from pouting too much.” John said gruffly, wanting to extend a welcome to Jim but not wanting to come across as too chummy.

Jim’s eyes slid back to John’s and he smiled slowly, proud that he’d made such an impact, “Thank you John. I’m stuck with him too now, of course I’ll do my best.”

John snorted and Sherlock looked indignant.

 

John had drifted back to the car after about an hour of them all staring wordlessly at the flames, completely entranced, and Sherlock finally cleared his throat, pursing his lips, “I want to see.”

Jim reluctantly tore his gaze away, blinking at Sherlock as the afterimage of the fire danced before his eyes, “It’s not pretty.”

“I’m not looking because it’s pretty, I’m looking because I’m curious.”

“And I’m warning you that it doesn’t look pretty.”

“Is that supposed to scare me?” Sherlock gave an overdramatic scoff, “I’ve dealt with plenty of gory bodies, yours isn’t the first.”

“I’m not special.” Jim echoed from their older conversation and Sherlock heaved a sigh, looking down.

“You know the truth.”

“And I want to hear you say it. That’s why I asked.”

“You aren’t like the other bodies I’ve dealt with. You aren’t like the other cases. You already know why I saved you.”

“There’s no more game to play.”

“It stopped being about the game awhile ago.” Sherlock shifted closer, reaching for Jim’s hat, certain that he’d be stopped, but his fingers wrapped around the edge of the green wool and he watched Jim for a sign that he didn’t mind.

Jim tilted his head in acknowledgement, suddenly breathless of the intimacy of it all, “Go ahead.”

Sherlock eased the hat back, tightening his fingers around it firmly so it wouldn’t fall as he rested his wrist on Jim’s shoulder and took in how he looked without it, feeling his soft black hair against his wrist. Jim looked much the same as before, nothing misshapen from the front, although his hair was ruffled and smashed unattractively from the hat. For some time they just studied each other and Sherlock was acutely aware of his elevated heartrate, pulse noticeable in his wrist. Jim could feel it and without realizing, he pressed his neck further into the even beat, blinking slowly at Sherlock.

Sherlock didn’t make a move to look at the back of Jim’s head. The moment called for being gentle and slow, for breathing and feeling without the rush. For being separate from their past lives of opposition, appreciating the tentative touches of two people like anyone else rather than sworn enemies on the battlefield. This was fine.

“I didn’t realize how quiet I’ve become since… but I’ve missed this.” Jim murmured, hand moving up to cradle Sherlock’s forearm and holding it more firmly against his soft neck.

“Did it hurt?”

Jim’s eyes fluttered shut and when at last he spoke again, his voice wavered in a way Sherlock had never expected to hear from him, “In my chest. But not when I did it. It happened too fast.”

“Good.” Sherlock swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat, “I was… thinking that you might have suffered. But that the shot had paralyzed you so your body couldn’t move, that you were in agony in your final moments.”

“I was happy.” Jim whispered, fingers sliding to Sherlock’s, pushing the hat out of his hand and lacing through them to indicate their first and last touch.

“If you could go back, would you?”

“Go back to the rooftop to stop myself or go back to being dead?”

“Either one.”

“… A little bit of both maybe.”

Sherlock slowly tightened his fingers around Jim’s, recalling vividly that split second where he hadn’t known how drastically his life was about to change but knowing even in his confusion that it was a big deal to be offered Jim Moriarty’s hand. And being distantly aware that something bad was coming. Jim Moriarty wouldn’t just roll over when challenged. He always played the game. He always solved the problem.

“Where are you planning on going when we get to Holyhead? John and I were going to stay on a boat until this blows over…”

“My childhood home. A little cabin outside of Enniskerry. No one lives there anymore, but there are animals… I won’t harm anyone so no one should harm me...”

Sherlock nodded, wishing he had the strength to invite Jim to join them. Or to ask if he could stay with Jim. But he couldn’t.

Jim had solved their problem too. Had Sherlock gone through with his plan, he wouldn’t have had to suffer in a world without him. But for as important as Jim was, Sherlock had other obligations. And for as much as it had ached seeing him dead and gone, his beautiful mind lost to a bullet, Sherlock had known he wouldn’t have been able to go through with it.

“Did you feel relief or regret?” Jim whispered, throat thrumming against Sherlock’s wrist, fingers still holding on tight. He needed to know.

“… Regret. Mostly.” Sherlock shifted, getting slightly closer to Jim to better see him in the dying light of the fire, their faces only a few inches apart. He could feel Jim’s mechanical breathing against his lips and he sighed just to watch Jim’s closed eyelids flutter slightly and his mouth open to taste what living breath was like again. He sighed again. The corners of Jim’s open mouth twitched upward in a grateful smile.

“I cried for you.”

It was silent. The two of them sitting still. The fire fading to embers.

“You better look at my head before it gets too dark to see.”

Sherlock didn’t pull his arm away, instead using his free hand to cup Jim’s jaw and guide his head into position. The fire gradually burned itself down to embers. Their eyes adjusted slowly to the clouded moonlight. Sherlock eventually sighed and released Jim’s head, looking away as Jim turned to him.

“Interesting?”

“It was never wounds that attracted me to your work before and it’s certainly not what attracts me to you now.”

Jim’s thumb rubbed over Sherlock’s fingers, his eyes wide to catch any faint movement he could make out.

“Are you disgusted?”

“A little disappointed. Not disgusted. It doesn’t interest or deter me.”

Sherlock smiled at the confused look he got and he moved to whisper in Jim’s ear, voice low, “Would you like to keep feeling this? My heartbeat, my breath?”

He could feel Jim’s nod against his nose and after a moment of silence, they both stood. Sherlock let Jim keep a hold on his hand, helping him when his legs faltered. They climbed into the back of the car for privacy from John and lay under a blanket, Sherlock’s wrist on Jim’s neck, their mouths inches apart. Together they slept.


	13. Chapter 13

In the past, John had talked about awkward mornings after, where he and his sexual partner of choice would eat breakfast and make uncomfortable small talk.

What he and Jim had done could hardly qualify as sex, but it was so unbelievably intimate in a way he rarely allowed himself to be that a part of him had expected things to be weird in some way. Certainly the way John was watching him with a look of concentration as he tried to figure out if they had actually done anything was a fair reason to feel embarrassed, but Sherlock just couldn’t bring himself to be.

Jim paused in preparing them all bacon and sausage to go be sick in the field, body now rejecting his meal from the night before, and once he was out of earshot, John leaned in, “I left early so you could have an excuse to get on with it, did you?”

“Get on with what?” Sherlock asked airily, taking pleasure in holding something over John’s head.

“Did I go to bed early for nothing? I’ll have you know that I’m not going to be your wingman again then, I’m going to be deliberately obnoxious and cockblock you every chance I get.” John teased, moving to take over Jim’s task.

“I think James vomiting over there is enough of a sexual inhibitor, thank you though.” Sherlock smirked, “Besides, you don’t know what we did.”

“Ugh, I wonder what that’s about.” John huffed, pausing to shout, “Er, Moriarty, are you feeling okay?”

“I feel like I’m dying.” Came Jim’s moaned response.

“Maybe I should examine him.” John said to Sherlock.

“He’s fine, there’s no real chance of him dying.” Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.

John nodded, did a double take, then nodded again as he brushed off the strange words, “Then what did you do?”

“We… held hands. I guess that’s what it was. Our faces were very close towards the end of the evening, he had his eyes closed and his mouth open, but I didn’t push it.” Better to imply Jim had wanted to kiss him rather than breathe his air, it just sounded too creepy that way, “And then we lay together in the back of the car. It was nice.”

John blinked at Sherlock, torn between laughing at how innocent he was and chastising him for not making a move when Jim had been giving pretty clear signs that he wanted it.

“You should have kissed him.” John decided, rolling his eyes and filling their plates with food, “You can’t be so cautious, I know it must seem scary but it seems from your interactions that he wouldn’t like… force anything you were uncomfortable with.”

“I know that. It just felt right to do what we did, it was nice.” Sherlock gave John a half smile, “Like I’m going to take advice from you, I’m not looking for a one night stand, John. It’s not all about sex.”

“Now that’s just mental.” John laughed, handing Sherlock his plate and joking, “Of course it’s about sex, I thought that’s all you were interested in Moriarty for. All that case stuff, it was just to get to the ultimate goal. I have to say, your dedication is extraordinary.”

Sherlock chuckled and turned his head to look out at Jim’s distant form hunched over in the grass, wondering what exactly had been Jim’s interest the night before. From his attitude in the morning he wasn’t disappointed or upset, in fact he seemed pretty positive, even relaxed. They’d need to do that again. Sharing breath. Sherlock couldn’t imagine it, but losing something so natural and important must be disorienting, of course having the sounds and the sensations back even temporarily would help Jim get his bearings again. And especially with Sherlock, their unspoken trust further lulling Jim into a relaxed state.

 

Jim felt wretched, but at last he was certain he’d emptied his stomach of its toxic contents and he stood on trembling legs, stumbling back towards the car. No more non-meat food, his stomach couldn’t take it. Jim sat heavily on the ground a respectable distance from Sherlock and ignored John as he gave him a suggestive wink, mind on cramming as much food as he could fit into his mouth to try and ease his stomachache.

“Did you have fun?” John chuckled.

“Yeah, that was a real blast.” Jim said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

“I meant last night.”

Jim thought back to the night before to see if maybe he’d missed something, yes it was a big deal in his and Sherlock’s terms, but it hardly seemed like John would understand that, especially when in part it stemmed from the fact that he was a zombie. A glance at Sherlock confirmed that he hadn’t made up some crazy sex story to appease John, so Jim shrugged.

“We had an interesting conversation.”

John seemed disappointed, but Jim gave Sherlock a sly smile, knowing his heart would have fluttered at the one he got in return had it still been working.


	14. Chapter 14

Jim and John were sitting in the car together, waiting for Sherlock to finish relieving himself. To John it felt awkward to be alone with the man, but Jim was lost in thought so if never occurred to him that the silence was uncomfortable, just that it was nice that John wasn’t trying to force a conversation. It was hard for him to feign interest in small talk and when there was no intellectual stimulation to be gained from it like there was when he was in disguise, it was nearly impossible to work up the energy.

“Maybe I should go too.” John said after a time, squinting at the field to try and see Sherlock.

“Hmm.” Jim hummed noncommittally.

John continued looking, but after a moment he made a confused face and turned to Jim, “In this time that you’ve been with us, you haven’t gone once.”

“Hmm.”

“That’s not healthy, it can be a sign that something is wrong. Have you been drinking at all? You can get dehydrated very quickly with all the exercise that we’ve been doing.”

“Hmm.” Jim began to bob his head in agreement, eyes still distant. Once a few seconds had passed, he shook himself out of his daze and turned to John, “I’m fine. Not that you care.”

“I’d rather you didn’t keel over and die on me.” John said, trying to sound lighthearted but it came off gloomy.

“That’s not going to happen.” Jim closed his eyes, turning his face away again.

“You can’t be so sure. I think you could do with a checkup, I’ve been noticing some troubling symptoms, discoordination, noticeable paleness, occasional dazes, clammy skin… I think you could have a virus, certainly a fever when you passed out in the road.”

Jim inhaled just to let out a long sigh, trying to ease his headache from the badgering, “I’m okay, it won’t kill me.”

“Possible constipation, disinterest in water, vomiting…” John continued, “You haven’t removed your bandages so a slowed healing process…”

“And if I die you can say that you told me so.” Jim said.

“It’s almost like--…” John stopped a beat, another beat, eyes locked on Jim as he tried to understand his sudden revelation when there was no way it made sense.

“Hmm?”

“Nothing.”

There was a gunshot from the field and they both sat up straight, squinting for Sherlock. Everything held still, then another gunshot came and Sherlock’s voice, “ _John_! Little help?!”

John grabbed his gun and ran into the field, not even pausing to let Jim catch up even though he was stumbling, the sniper rifle grasped in his hands. Across the grass he could just barely make out Sherlock up in a tree, firing down at a  small group of zombies below, occasionally kicking when one began to climb up.

John began firing as they ran, easily taking out a couple, but Jim lagged, staring at the creatures. At first he had been terrified that Sherlock might be killed, but seeing what they were up against he just felt… odd. The creatures were no match, faces flushed and sweaty with heat as their bodies burned up, clumsy and shaking and tripping over themselves, bodies light and easily knocked aside whenever Sherlock kicked at one. John shot three more and they went down, faces still lost even in permanent death.

They got to Sherlock and the two that remained stopped grasping with their thin fingers up at the food above, faces turning to John. He fired quickly and they collapsed, the sound of the bullets hitting them less like shots into a living body but rather into something made of dust or straw, like beating a withered mummy or a scarecrow. Without food they’d quickly become weak and helpless, and Jim blinked in confusion as John patted Sherlock on the back when he climbed down and panted something about victory. How was this victory? There had been no competition, they could have easily lured them into a trap to be cured but instead they’d just… shot them.

Jim frowned and looked away, realizing that his body was tense and aching. He didn’t care. People didn’t matter to him because they were so far beneath him mentally, and brain activity-wise zombies were probably even less useful for satisfying his mind, but it still felt wrong. They put up no fight but John had been convinced that they were a serious threat, it was just embarrassing at this point.

Sherlock didn’t respond to John’s claim. After shouting for help he’d felt foolish pretty fast, the things weren’t much of a problem for him to handle on his own, mostly just an inconvenience, and seeing the pitiful state they’d been reduced to in hardly any time at all made him wonder if they had any reason to keep traveling… If the zombies were so easily handled when deprived of food, they just had to wait it out until they were weak. The possible cure that Jim represented would already be pointless with such a quick decay before they even finished making an antidote, within a few weeks it was possible that they’d be returning to their inanimate forms once more…

Would the same happen to Jim if deprived of food? Sherlock looked over, considering his half turned stormy expression. He’d need to focus some attention on the radio in case more news came up, announcements that things were dying out. What would happen if things returned to normal? What would they become?

“Let’s head back to the car.” Sherlock sighed, pulling away.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock took over driving when John got tired. There were a few complaints that Jim hadn’t taken a turn, but John abandoned his whining when offered Sherlock’s phone to contact his family and both Jim and Sherlock relaxed, the trouble of explaining what Jim was to John averted yet again. By the next morning they arrived at a decent sized town and everyone climbed out, stretching their limbs before starting to scavenge.

Jim managed to find a large box of lunch meat packs hidden in the back room at the grocery store and he swallowed some of the slices down behind the checkout counter, beside himself with relief when he finally finished and limped out of the store once again. The gnawing pain had returned in the night, urging him to take a bite out of John and Sherlock, but now his head was clear and his bag was stuffed with more than enough provisions for a few nights if he was smart, improving his mood greatly.

When they met up back at the car, Sherlock opened his bag to show what he’d grabbed, “I got a few loaves of bread from the bakery. Not much to choose from, a lot of people have already gone looking through there.”

“Good.” John said brightly, opening his own, “I found some more firewood and matchbooks, though nothing to eat, everything had been looted already. What about you, Jim?”

“I wasn’t able to find much, only a couple of packages of meat. I’ll search harder the next time we stop.” Jim said, making no move to show what was in his bag.

For a few moments, John stared back at Jim’s even expression, then he gritted his teeth, speaking in a slow voice, “If you want to keep traveling with us, we’re going to need you to be honest.”

“I just got a little meat, I didn’t find anything else. I got distracted.” Jim said smoothly, eyes narrowing at John’s.

“Distracted by eating like a thief while we willingly share what we found?” John spat back, “I heard you, there’s no point in pretending otherwise.”

“John, he needs it, he’s feeling poorly.” Sherlock said calmly as he got between John and Jim, squeezing the blond man’s shoulders to try and get his attention, “Let him eat what he finds, we can get our own food.”

“What about when we run out and he’s still hoarding his share? We’re down to hardly anything, Sherlock!” John protested, shoving Sherlock away and moving towards Jim again, “We’re all traveling together, we share what we find. What exactly is in your bag?”

“Meat.” Jim said coldly, annoyed with John for pressing so much and starting to feel out of touch with his body, a burning sensation welling in his stomach, “Only. But I need it for myself, which is why I didn’t offer it. I’m ill.”

“Liar.” John said loudly, “Selfish liar, you couldn’t care less if we starved. You’re just looking out for your own wellbeing. You both keep saying that whatever it is you’ve got can’t kill you, so why do you deserve more rations?”

“It’s in your best interest that I don’t go hungry.” Jim continued, watching John with dark eyes, praying that he’d back off before something happened, “Johnny boy, relax.”

“Don’t call me that!” John shoved Sherlock out of the way and grabbed the front of Jim’s shirt, slamming him against the side of the car to stun him, “And don’t tell me to relax! You’re keeping something from us, I know it.”

Jim blinked hard as his bullet wound cracked against the car and his entire head burst into feverish pain to match his stomach, a pitiful whine escaping him, “I’m just sick, you’re safe as long as I eat… I… Oh, I need to sit. Let me sit…” He trailed off into a low moan as his head pounded harder and was aware even though his daze that John’s grip on his shirt was relaxing, the man fearful of the inhuman sound. Everything felt numb, the positive effects from the meat already gone, giving way to the hunger of the night before, the heat consuming his body.

“Have you been bitten?”

The fog was becoming stronger, taking over his mind, but still the words drifted to Jim’s consciousness and he managed to wave his head back and forth, the jerky movement intensely disturbing, as if his neck was broken, “No… Please…”

The hands were gone Jim realized, and without their support he easily spilled onto the ground, eyes glazed and body boiling as the deadness welled up within him, taking control of his body, forcing inarticulate whines from his rasping throat.

“For fuck’s sake.” John was moving back, staring in horror down at the monster Jim was becoming before his eyes as his perspective changed. All the symptoms that had before seemed like an ordinary illness were now serving to transform the man into a mindless beast in John’s mind.

“John, just take a deep breath.” Sherlock whispered, moving between them.

“He’s…”

“Jim Moriarty. He’s just sick. They’re all just sick.”

“He could have turned at any time, you gave your word for a… zombie! You… you knew! You knew he was one of them, you risked our lives willingly!”

“He can be dealt with. We have rope in the car…”

“We also have guns. We can finish this properly. We can’t afford to risk it.”

“John… you can’t, he can be saved.” Sherlock was shaking his head, glancing back at the limp, growling body on the floor and clinging to his hope.

“Sherlock… I know you think… that it’s still him. That you can have him back. That you can have whatever future you thought you lost. But Moriarty killed himself and this is just… what’s left. Rotting flesh moving around because of some infection, nothing more. And if you really believe he’s in there, why did you give up on Mrs. Hudson so easily? Either you let her down, or you know deep down that there’s nothing in there.”

“You heard him talk! It’s Jim!” Sherlock knew his logic was sound but explaining the reasoning was out of his reach as he saw John reaching for his gun, hysteria cracking his voice, the guilt of remembering how he’d failed Mrs. Hudson weakening his words, “It’s Jim, please! I won’t let you! Just tie him up, when he comes out of it, you’ll see! You’ll see, please!”

“Look at him, he’s gone… We should put the thing down before it gets up, that’ll only make it harder to deal with. Let him go with dignity.”

The conversation faded and Jim drifted in the sweltering heat, hearing only his own animalistic noises. John was going to kill him. Everything had been going so well, it made him so frustrated at the unfairness of it all. What could he have done, he needed that food, there was no way John would have listened when they actually ran out of food, better to hide it…

He’d come back to a world where he and Sherlock were free from their respective roles, where their story had run its course, where they could have a new story, but he was a slave to this disease, trapped within himself as others debated his fate… Even deep within his mind, he could distantly feel his body shaking, tears dripping onto the pavement beneath his face. The sound of a gun being cocked rang through his head and proper sobs started to jerk his shoulders, terrified whines punctuating the growls. He didn’t want to die, especially not like some dog in the street as Sherlock looked on, his fate out of his hands, his body unresponsive. It wasn’t fair.

But he faded anyway.


	16. Chapter 16

Down in the morgue, surveying Jim’s body, so small and vulnerable on the slab beneath his almost pristine sheet, Sherlock had taken time to study him more than he’d had the chance to before. Up close, with no spark of life to deter him. But even in death, Jim’s carefully constructed business persona had hidden away all details of his personal life, robbing Sherlock of clues. No secrets could be learned from his hands, his throat, his mouth.

But now, limp and trembling deliriously on the ground as John stood over him with a gun, Sherlock could read so much more. Whatever was there inside that body was Jim, not Moriarty the mastermind but Jim the human, the person that had hidden behind the mask and the cases, searching for an equal, the person that had been beaten down by the world, and Sherlock reacted, knowing if he hesitated as he had up on that rooftop that he’d regret it for the rest of his life.

Sherlock bashed the side of his gun into the back of John’s skull and watched as he collapsed, taking a moment to note the differences between now and how he normally looked passed out from drugs before he grabbed Jim’s body and dragged him to the back of the car, flopping him into the trunk. John probably couldn’t be reasoned with. He was too moral, even if he accepted that Jim was still in there, he’d blame Sherlock for giving up on Mrs. Hudson.

Not that Sherlock didn’t blame himself as well. It hurt, knowing that he’d failed the woman that had been a second mother to him when he probably should have stayed with her to assess her state, but he’d been in so much pain that it had clouded his judgement, driving him to run from the sorrow. That was the problem with sentiment. It made people behave foolishly, it made them abandon those they loved. Or it made them stay with lost causes…

As he sped down the highway, Sherlock could hear Jim’s corpse moving in the trunk, nails scratching at the carpet, and it damn near broke his heart. What if John was right? What if he was fucking up all over again? Leaving behind those that could be saved, trying to rescue the monsters? How could he have so easily let Mrs. Hudson go, but with a murderer he was so willing to trade everything just to get him back? Jim had blasted his brains out, it was a miracle he’d survived so long. But perhaps it had just been a mistake, and this was how it was supposed to be. Jim’s lingering consciousness, their reunion, their moments of gentleness… Maybe this really was it. Sherlock had once again allowed his heart to rule his head, convincing him that there was hope for himself and his greatest enemy to… start anew.

Sherlock drove without rest, determined to get to Holyhead by morning. The radio kept him company, reporting on reconstruction of the major cities, on how the army was handling the stragglers, on how vaccinations were available for the uninfected, where nearby shelters were. And even when he arrived in Holyhead and found it much the same, he still bundled Jim’s body in a blanket and dragged it onto a boat that he paid for with cash from a man on the docks who seemed surprised by Sherlock’s urgency but was willing to ignore his odd cargo thanks to the extra money Sherlock had slipped him.

 

The cabin was easy to find. Sherlock rented a car on the other side and followed the GPS’s directions to Enniskerry. There he bought supplies at the local grocery and it only took asking two people to find out where the Moriarty family’s old cabin was. Sherlock drove out to it, parking in front of the run down thing and taking a moment to catch his breath before pushing on.

It took some effort to get the place functional again. Sweeping, mopping, dusting, general maintenance. It helped take his mind off of Jim, the way his eyes remained dull as he ate the food Sherlock prepared for him, the length of time he spent in his rabid state getting longer and longer. Sherlock patched the walls, then painted them, then began to repair other things he found around to keep himself busy. Better than thinking about what had happened.

At night, Sherlock lay awake in a sleeping bag in the master bedroom, listening to the sound of chains and scratching through the wall as Jim tried to get free, and he could almost convince himself when on the cusp of sleep that the scratching was a binary code, meant for him to decipher. That Jim’s consciousness was locked away deep inside, that he would eventually resurface. The scratching gave Sherlock nightmares, but at least he could pretend.

In the morning, Sherlock would tie a gag into place and change Jim’s bandages, the ones covering his permanently scraped wrists and cheek, the one that kept blood from staining his green hat so that Sherlock could maintain the illusion that they were just living together, that this was normal, that there was nothing wrong with having ones roommate chained up in the corner.

Eventually Sherlock bought him gloves and the awful scratching faded, though they didn’t help his night terrors. They just began to center on what the silence meant. That Jim had broken free, but rather than turning on Sherlock, he’d wandered off. That he might be killed by people that didn’t understand that he wasn’t just any other zombie. He was better, he was different. Jim was in there. Wasn’t he?

And when Sherlock woke up screaming and sobbing and drenched in sweat, he always had to go check that Jim was still chained up, sitting in his corner with lost eyes, rubbing at the ground with his gloved hands. He would perk up a little when he noticed Sherlock’s muffled crying and Sherlock would pretend that the focused look that locked on him was one of concern rather than hunger, because if he gave up hope he would surely lose himself.

Some mornings, Sherlock didn’t put the gag on Jim. He wanted to think that it was because he was hoping that he’d speak, but the reality was that he was waiting for the day that he slipped up and Jim sank his teeth into his skin. Because then he’d turn and he wouldn’t have such an awful life, using a reanimated corpse to pretend that he wasn’t totally alone and suffering.

 

Sherlock paid the bills with the bank account his brother had given him. It was easier than dragging himself into some job, trying to reenter society when he was in such a fucked up place, how would anyone understand? As the months passed and people moved on, how could he pretend he was normal? He had a zombie in his house, he had abandoned his life to live in the woods. The world returned to normal, but Sherlock remained apart.

Sometimes his phone rang and Sherlock would watch the screen, reading the names that came up again and again.

John Watson.

John Watson.

John Watson.

John Watson.

John Watson

John Watson.

Molly Hooper.

John Watson.

John Watson.

Molly Hooper.

John Watson.

Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock had stared at that one for a long time. Even after the phone had stopped ringing, he kept the screen on, reading the name again and again. Mycroft was alive. No one else would have access to his phone after all, so he must be alive. Somehow he’d survived.

Sherlock didn’t call back. Surely his brother knew where he was, if it was serious he’d have someone fetch him.

No one came. Sherlock bought Jim a sleeping bag to sit on, so he could pretend that the zombies were still roaming the country and that they’d holed up in an abandoned house, that Jim was going to ask to feel his heartbeat and breath again, that they could lay together and be close without saying a word.

More months slipped by and Sherlock sometimes spent nights on the sofa so he could watch Jim, hating himself for the fact that it made his night terrors less horrifying.

 

Sherlock repainted the outside of the cabin. He repaired the porch, then rebuilt the entire thing from scratch just for something to do. He fixed the roof. He trimmed the nearby trees, then raked up all the years’ worth of accumulated leaves. He found new recipes online, things to feed Jim, though he himself kept to simple dishes. It was pointless and sentimental but Christ, it helped thinking it would make Jim happy.

He bought beehives and began to tend to them in his free time, finding the work calming. And some evenings, Sherlock would open the window so Jim could look at the stars. By that point he had stopped pretending, so as he watched him, he didn’t delude himself into thinking that the way Jim was staring up at the night sky had anything to do with his long gone consciousness, but it was nice to see that lost look fade a little. Perhaps it was like a moth staring at a light, Jim didn’t feel anything anymore, but his body still reacted.

Sherlock smiled. Losing Moriarty had been painful but bearable, because they hadn’t been close enough, there hadn’t been enough possibility of a better life for them, since things were doomed from the start. Sherlock could still trudge on. But losing Jim was devastating. Because he’d really believed they could be happy. How naive. But having him here, even just his body, it made Sherlock feel at least a little better.

He wished he had gotten a chance to say goodbye. But deep down Sherlock knew that anything he would say to Jim had already crossed his mind. And that was enough. It had to be.


	17. Chapter 17

It had been almost two years since the apocalypse that Sherlock got a call that he finally answered.

Mrs. Hudson.

It was insane. It was absolutely impossible, but still…

“Sherlock dear? Are you there?”

Sherlock’s hand was shaking. He could hear her sweet voice in his ear, kind and loving, just as gentle as ever. He wanted to be sick. Maybe he’d finally snapped. Maybe he was dead.

“Mrs. Hudson.” Somehow his words came out steady and deep and there came a happy sigh from the other end.

“You’re still alive, that’s wonderful, your brother said you were but I was still so worried about you, I know how he can be, lying to protect people. He wouldn’t let me visit, said you were busy, so I thought maybe…”

“How long have you…?” Sherlock murmured, stumbling as he found a seat and strained for the response. How strange it was to hear English again, he’d gotten so used to inarticulate moans…

“Only about two months, dear. It’s the strangest thing, I remember everything feeling so hot, burning me up, and then fading away, but then I woke up. Apparently the government found me in my… untreated state and escorted me to a nice little facility to keep me safe until they could fix everybody. Now that they’ve perfected a cure and they’re sure it’s permanent, they’re going to start letting us reenter society. I really hope nothing bad happens, though in therapy they were saying we might have to deal with a little bit of hostility…”

“Are you in pain?” Sherlock whispered, “Did it hurt when you…? Have you called John?”

“Well, it hurt a bit at first, but it was just like going to sleep. I’m not in pain now though, in fact my hip doesn’t even bother me anymore, fancy that. I was just going to give him a phone call after you, did you know he got married? Lovely ceremony, your brother showed me photographs-”

“I’m so sorry for leaving you!” Sherlock blurted, cutting Mrs. Hudson off, “I am so, so sorry, I should have stayed. I should have made certain they took care of you, you were lucky the government found you and not some people escaping the city, it was my fault that you…”

“Oh Sherlock, hush, really. You need to calm down if you’re to come visit, I’ll be moving back to Baker Street in about a week. John’s moved out, so if you finished whatever it is that you’re busy with… maybe you could move back, dear. I wouldn’t even charge you, I just want you close by if you aren’t too busy, if that’s too much to ask I won’t mind, at least come see me…”

“I will.” Sherlock said in a rush, wiping at his eyes, “I’ll move back in, I’ll pay rent, I won’t destroy your walls or the floor, anything, I promise. I have… business here, but if… if they’re still taking untreated individuals… to cure them… I can easily… finish up this business.”

“Oh Sherlock, really, I knew you loved solving murders and doing experiments on body parts, but please tell me you haven’t been spending the last two years with an untreated person, it’s not decent!” Mrs. Hudson chastised, “It’s illegal until they’ve been given a cure!”

Sherlock flushed deeply as he realized what she meant and he quickly stuttered out an explanation, “I haven’t been doing anything to him! I’ve just been taking care of him, that’s all!”

“Who is it, dear?”

“Er… Jim.” For a few seconds it was silent as Mrs. Hudson tried to remember who Jim was, then Sherlock added reluctantly, “Moriarty.”

“Oh yes, I remember him. A bit strange.”

“I know.” Sherlock laughed weakly, “Oh God, I need to get him into that program, how do I go about that?”

“Well I know that there’s a bit of a waiting list, but if you contact your brother I’m sure he can get you in.”

“No way, out of the question. He’ll have Jim killed!” Sherlock huffed.

 

Exactly twenty four hours later, Sherlock was seated directly across from Mycroft on a helicopter bound for the rehabilitation facility, Jim Moriarty heavily restrained beside him.

“Nice to see you again, Sherlock.”

Sherlock snorted noncommittally.

“Stubble suits you. I don’t know about the shoulder length hair though, you could do with a trim.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“You really should give Mummy a call back, she’s been worried sick…”

“Are you going to nag me the entire way?” Sherlock cut in.

“Would you rather we discuss your pet?” Mycroft said, tone becoming cold.

They sat still, glaring at one another for a few moments, then Sherlock leaned back, “I’ll call Mummy.”

“Arrange to visit her and Father. But only after a haircut.”

Sherlock snorted again.

 

There was a clean cot and white walls.

Waking up in the environment he had woken up in was hardly pleasant, but it was a fact, so Jim Moriarty dealt with it, as he dealt with everything.

There was therapy for coming to terms with what he’d thought to be his second death at the hands of John Watson, there was therapy for unlearning the self-destructive behaviors that had led to his first death, there was therapy for his harmful coping skills. There were surgeries to repair the damage done to his skull.

And after his months of personal improvement and mental healing, Jim Moriarty limped out of the facility a changed man.

To make the shift back into human society a little easier, they’d given him replacements for the clothes he’d arrived in. An oversized jumper. Some faded jeans. Hiking boots. A green wool hat. Jim adjusted his backpack on his shoulders and squinted against the natural light, trying to figure out what to do next.

He had some money on him and a cell phone, but none of the cab drivers seemed to trust the clumsy man in front of the zombie building, and after a few tries Jim gave up. He brushed his clothes off, then set off down the street to find one of his flats, though he didn’t get far.

A car pulled up alongside him and the window rolled down. Jim had been warned that the uninfected weren’t exactly friendly towards their kind and that they might get aggressive, so he kept moving, until he heard that voice and he looked up. His heart surely would have stuttered if it was still beating.

“Jim.” Sherlock leaned across to better see him, slowing to a stop.

“Sherlock.” Jim stopped as well, crouching down a little to see Sherlock, “…I like the stubble.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock said. After a moment, he cleared his throat, annoyed at the painful lump that was growing and making it hard for him to get the words out, “I got caught up in traffic. That’s why I wasn’t there to pick you up.”

“You drive now.” Jim murmured. He blinked hard a few times. His doctor had insisted that weakened tear ducts weren’t actually a side effect of the condition but Jim was still pretty sure he was wrong. He never cried this much before.

“Yeah, just in case, you know. Something happens and I need to get out of the city.” Sherlock shrugged, eyes flickering over Jim’s replacement clothes. It made his chest ache to see them again, “Want to get in? You can put your bag in the back.”

“Where are we going?” Jim asked, climbing into the passenger seat and placing his backpack on his lap once his seatbelt was on, just in case they needed to bolt.

“Baker Street.” Sherlock pulled back onto the road, full attention turning to driving.

 

[“Your lips feel warm to the touch,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aTcJWhmdzpg)

[You can bring me back to life.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aTcJWhmdzpg)

[On the outside you’re ablaze and alive,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aTcJWhmdzpg)

[But you’re dead inside.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aTcJWhmdzpg)

 

When they arrived, Sherlock offered his own armchair this time, in the hopes that Jim might be fooled and take John’s instead, but Jim sat in Sherlock’s with a polite smile, fully aware of what he was doing, “Thank you.”

“Are you allowed to drink tea?” Sherlock asked, stumbling over his words a little as he stared at even that tiny shift in the muscles of Jim’s mouth, feeling dizzy. He hadn’t done as much research as he should have on the restrictions of… the cured, and now he was kicking himself. Two years of living with Jim and here he was acting like a fool just because he flashed him a smile, probably being insensitive about his condition. Not that he cared what anyone thought of him of course.

“Tea would be lovely.” Jim nodded, looking around the flat thoughtfully. Sherlock stared at Jim a bit longer, then he caught himself and left to prepare their drinks.

He didn’t try to make conversation from the kitchen. It felt too impersonal, especially with what they’d been through. Sherlock needed to see Jim’s face, moving and expressive again, the way his shoulders didn’t stop moving, the occasional clumsiness, just to know that he was in there and that it was permanent this time.

 

“I don’t mean to stare so much, it’s just been so long since I saw you out of chains.” Sherlock said as he brought the tea out and he stopped in his tracks, contemplating the fastest way to kill himself to avoid further social embarrassment, “I… haven’t spoken to anyone in a long time.”

“They told me you took care of me.” Jim said quietly, accepting the tea and taking a long drink, sighing as he set it back in the saucer.

“Yes. In your cabin. Like you planned.” Sherlock said, wondering if his intensity was too much when he saw Jim flinch.

“Why did you save me?” Jim whispered at last.

“You know why.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, considering the strained look on Jim’s face, “Because I’m selfish.”

“ _Why_ did you save me?”

“Because I can’t live without you.”

“ _Why did you save me_?”

Sherlock shifted in the armchair under the weight of Jim’s dark gaze, “Did you not want to be saved?”

“I never said that.”

“You know why.”

Jim leaned in, dropping his voice, “I want to hear you say it, Sherlock.”

Sherlock leaned in until they were only a few inches apart, the silence hanging.

“Because I love you.”

“Say it again.”

“I love you.”

“Again.”

“I love you. Jim Moriarty. Don’t ever leave me behind.”

Jim blinked against his tears, swallowing thickly, before he leaned back again to take another long drink, “I have no reason to.”

“My landlady is under the impression that I was having intercourse with your body.” Sherlock said suddenly, trying to change the subject to something less intense.

“Were you?”

“No!” Sherlock blurted, eyes narrowing as Jim began to giggle quietly, “Jim! Stop! I wasn’t, why would I?”

“There’s no reason to be so flustered about it, I just think your reaction is pretty adorable.” Jim set his cup aside and wiped his eyes, feeling more relaxed, “I don’t think I’d mind.”

“Oh shut up.” Sherlock scowled, turning his attention to his tea, certain he was being mocked.

“Please tell me you don’t normally have attitude like this in the time we’ve been living together.” Jim chuckled.

“Normally you don’t make fun of me, you just mind your own business.”

“Don’t tell me you’d rather go back to that.” Jim winked but was taken aback when Sherlock grabbed his hands, eyes wide.

“Never. I want you just as you are.”

Jim moved in close until Sherlock’s uneven breathing was crossing his lips and he could taste his air, alive and warm, over his tongue.

“And you have me.”


	18. Chapter 18

By the evening, they were tangled together in bed, Sherlock’s wrist on Jim’s pulseless throat, their mouths far closer than they were the last time they did the same thing, and it was almost a competition to see who would cave first and close the minute distance between their lips.

Jim pressed closer to Sherlock’s body, releasing a soft sigh at the feeling of his lean muscles. Sherlock shivered, tongue running over his lips to keep calm. Jim wasn’t going to break him. But even as he thought it, Jim’s hands were sliding over his back and down his trousers to cup his backside, making Sherlock’s eyes widen in surprise, “You’re cheating!”

“Cheating at what?” Jim breathed innocently, eyes wide and smile sweet.

“ _Fuck_.” Sherlock gasped and gave in, hands cradling Jim’s face and pulling him into a desperate kiss, one that lacked experience and skill but made up for it with unbridled enthusiasm. Jim panted through his nose and pulled Sherlock flush against his own body, a triumphant smile on his face as he pulled back to wink at Sherlock.

“I win.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “You cheated.”

“There were no rules.” Jim moved to press kisses along Sherlock’s warm jawline, loving the way his faint stubble scratched at his lips, then he slid to nibble at his ear.

“Are you turning back?”

“Don’t joke about that, I wouldn’t eat you.” Jim whispered, eyes fluttering closed.

“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t put me on edge.” Sherlock said though even he wasn’t convinced, finding the sensation of Jim’s teeth and warm mouth more than a little distracting.

“I think I’ll have to change your mind about that then…”

Sherlock whined unhappily as Jim released his hold on his ear and began to suck and lick down his throat, feeling surprisingly vulnerable. Jim paused to leave a hickey, too high to be hidden under a scarf, not that Sherlock would have wanted to, before he continued on his way down, using his teeth to undo the straining buttons of Sherlock’s shirt.

“Where did you learn this stuff?” Sherlock said, staring in awe as Jim easily finished off the row and moved back up to run a hand over Sherlock’s warm chest, rubbing teasing circles over one of his nipples and making him sharply suck in a breath.

“Common knowledge.” Jim teased, his free fingers starting to brush over Sherlock’s treasure trail and the lines of his pelvis, “I’d offer to teach you but I’m sure you’ll have it down soon enough.”

“Little… distracted...” Sherlock blinked hard to clear his head as he looked down at what Jim was doing, “You might need to run it by me a few more times.”

“Greedy.”

“Dedicated to perfection.” Sherlock corrected, eyes fluttering shut as Jim went back to marking his neck, hips grinding upward in anticipation. Jim’s fingers disappeared to play with Sherlock’s other nipple and he whined, “Jim… _please_.”

“I want this to last, don’t you?” Jim purred.

“I’m sick of waiting.” Sherlock snapped, hands coming up to grip Jim’s shoulders and giving him a little shake, “I want you. Please. Let me feel you.”

“You want my mouth then?” Jim whispered, “You want to know your cock is in the mouth of a monster, but instead of taking a bite, my sole interest is pleasing you to the best of my ability?”

“I don’t think you’re a monster.” Sherlock said reverently.

“It’s all a matter of perspective.” Jim grinned, hips pressing suggestively against Sherlock’s own, “You’re like me.”

“We aren’t monsters.”

“Then what are we?”

“We’re… normal now. No more elaborate games, no more problems to solve or criminal empires or bodies…”

“Just because we don’t have those things doesn’t mean we’re normal.” Jim said with a slow smile, “We’re still us. And we’ve still got each other.”

“But we aren’t on different sides this time.” Sherlock said it, wanting to sound convinced, though it came off as more of a question.

“There are no sides this time.”

Sherlock was going to speak, but he was distracted as Jim smoothed his hands down his chest and he filed his thoughts away for later. Jim nuzzled his way down to Sherlock’s belt and he set about removing it with a confident smile that faded as he realized his fingers were much clumsier than he was used to, though finally he and Sherlock managed to work it free.

To cover his failure, Jim drew Sherlock’s cock out of his pants and into his hand, giving his warm length a teasingly slow stroke before he sat up and pressed his partially open lips to his tip in a sloppy kiss, relaxing into the act of lapping precome from his slit as a moan escaped Sherlock.

“ _James…_ ”

Jim smiled from under his eyelashes up at Sherlock in the sexiest way he knew how, pliant lips sliding to completely envelop the head of his member and sucking evenly as he continued to tongue his hole. Sherlock’s body squirmed in excitement, his gaze locked on Jim’s seductive eyes and the way his cheeks hollowed as he diligently sucked Sherlock deeper into the wet heat of his mouth. Jim’s tongue began to tease lower as he coaxed Sherlock further inside, expertly teasing his foreskin back, and within a few seconds Sherlock was spilling into Jim’s mouth, body stiff and whimpering helplessly.

Jim swallowed down Sherlock’s release, then he tucked him back into his clothes and moved back up to kiss him, “Nice to see I haven’t lost my touch. I haven’t done that since before I died.”

“Oh don’t flatter yourself, I don’t have much experience.” Sherlock snorted, pressing an affectionate kiss to Jim’s cheek as they broke apart, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, but I did it because I wanted to. I’ve wanted to for a long time.”

Sherlock flushed deeper, feeling flattered that Jim had actually thought about doing such a thing for him. They fell into comfortable silence, Jim shifting to rest his head on Sherlock’s chest, listening to his heartbeat, and Sherlock watched him, after a moment removing his hat so he could pet back his hair.

“If there are no sides this time, what does that make us? If we aren’t enemies…?”

“We’re something new.” Jim said confidently, glancing up at Sherlock with a crooked smile.

“Ah… Why did you come back?” Sherlock whispered, his eyes softening as he watched Jim.

“You know why.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Are you sure? It won’t ruin the illusion?

“I’m sure.”

“…I love you.”

Sherlock smiled, fingers brushing the hair over where Jim’s wound used to be, “Thank you for the second chance.”

Jim beamed back at Sherlock, filling his lungs and tasting Sherlock’s air. Dynamic. Living. Warm.

“Thank you.”


	19. Chapter 19

Some nights Sherlock lay with Jim as he slept, chest pressed against his back so he could feel his heartbeat, and he’d strain for the sound of scratching. In case it all had just been a dream that he’d soon wake from, to find himself back in that cabin with Jim in chains rather than resting peacefully beside him comfortable and conscious thanks to medicine and a steady supply of meat.

Some nights Jim would pull away and limp to the window, letting the view of the night sky calm his restless mind, and Sherlock would watch from the bed, noting how his eyes relaxed and softened. Like he’d been lost for the longest time, but now he was home. Like his behavior in his untreated state hadn’t been completely involuntary, as if perhaps he’d been right to pretend.

John visited but Jim wasn’t there to accept his apology, somehow disappearing only a few minutes before his arrival much to Sherlock’s confusion. Sherlock accepted it in his place and apologized in turn for running off and ignoring John’s calls. They called it even and Sherlock reluctantly agreed to meet John’s wife, a little fearful that she would take over all of John’s free time, though he was thankfully wrong.

On occasion, Sherlock would catch Jim with a gun, playing with the trigger. He had to be coaxed into handing it over, then Sherlock would try to find a better hiding spot for the thing. Eventually he got rid of it altogether and the problem stopped coming up. He didn’t much need it anyway.

Sherlock worked from home. Client emails, cold cases, the rare visitor that even remembered who he was. Rather than throwing himself into the fray as he had before, Sherlock handled everything from afar, avoiding risk and enjoying the benefits of purely mental satisfaction rather than the cheap high of narrowly cheating death. Better than pretending like he could function like before, better than interacting when he’d so badly lost touch with humanity. Some days it felt like he wasn’t much different than the uncured, cast adrift by their condition and now finding that no matter how hard they tried, they no longer fit into the living world.

But he had Jim. Jim understood, keeping his mind busy by providing IT services over the internet, hiding away from the uninfected just like Sherlock did. When Sherlock was struggling, itching for a fix, it was Jim who explained lessons they had covered in his group therapy, that it was normal to feel out of touch, that there was no shame in struggling with sentiment. And the times that it didn’t help Sherlock to pretend that his experiences were normal, Jim would talk about just the two of them, their strength, their bond. The fact that they were free from the problem of before. That they had been given a second chance. That they couldn’t throw away their gifts.

There was no anger when Sherlock relapsed. When he came home high, he never saw judgement or frustration in Jim’s eyes, just as Sherlock was always understanding when he found Jim with the gun. They were broken things, it was better to take care of one another than fight or argue, they’d survived too much conflict already. And one day Sherlock found the dealers refusing to sell to him and he realized this was Jim’s way of putting the gun out of reach. Neither of them would be tempted. They needed to stay strong.

It wasn’t always perfect. Sometimes the night terrors got the better of them and they would say things they’d regret in the morning. Sometimes the work wasn’t enough and Sherlock would plead with Jim for a proper case, snarling in frustration when Jim insisted that they couldn’t allow themselves to get back to that old place or the cycle would begin anew and destroy them once more. Sometimes Jim didn’t remember to eat on time and he’d find himself slipping, then he’d frantically devour what he found in the fridge, trying to bury the urge to eat Sherlock with food that was safe, becoming defensive when Sherlock questioned him.

It wasn’t perfect, no. But they had their shared heartbeat, their shared breath, their shared warmth. Their bond. Their new lives. Their freedom. And that had to count for something.


End file.
